FICTION | SUGAR THERAPY.

*** If you're not caught up, this is the second installation of this new storyline.***

I bake when I'm mad. Fortunately, I know this recipe by heart otherwise it would surely turn into a flavorless brick. I toss in some flour, a generous pinch of poppyseeds, and lots and lots of lemon zest. This cake definitely doesn't fit my mood right now, but I'm working with what I've got: lemons, cravings, and a need for baking.

There's something about baking that soothes my soul. The clang of pots and pans, the scooping and pouring of ingredients. The way a wooden spoon can wear my arms out and make me feel like a pioneer woman. And who can forget the magic that can turn ten simple kitchen basics into a scrumptious cake?

It's magical and soothing and just what I needed after last night.

I slide the pan into the oven, set the timer and then plop on the couch. It's been a rough twelve hours, to say the least.

I was lucky enough to come home that night to an empty apartment. My roommates went home for the weekend and I had the place to myself. While I normally crave roommate time, I needed some time to cool down before they came home. I needed this even though I hated the silence.

The silence that made me think and replay last night over and over and over again. It was torture and yet it was therapy all at the same time.

As soon as he got up from the railing, he said goodnight, went out for an awkward handshake or hug and then waited for a moment. 

Yes, he was going to wait to walk me to my car after that. Yeah, that was not going to happen. I told him to go ahead. That I wanted a moment to think and be alone. I wanted to yell that I did not want to end the evening in odd silence walking with him but instead I just stood there and watched him walk down the dock. Lights were coming on and a couple of teenagers came walking towards us, too engrossed in their cell phones and social media to notice what was going on in front of them. His hands were in his pockets and he turned back for a split second then kept walking. 

I wanted him to come back. To regret what he had just said and done. To heal and mend and repair all the brokenness he had just created. But he didn't and I hated him for doing that.

I felt my phone buzz but didn't look at it. Instead, I pushed it further down into my jacket pocket. The air felt ten times colder and ten times quieter. I popped the collar of my wool coat and tucked a few loose strands of hair behind my ear. The night air was picking up and I felt goosebumps on my polka-dotted tights covering my legs. 

 "I need to get out of here," I thought. But I couldn't move. His silhouette was getting smaller and smaller. I stood there, in the same spot, and felt a tear trickle down my cheek. The same cheek that he had kissed a few short hours ago.

I readjusted my purse strap and started walking down the dock. By now he had to be in his car. I didn't even want to know what he was thinking. "What kind of jerk acts like that?" 

I wanted to scream. I wanted to kick and stomp my feet. I wanted to run. 

So I did.

Fortunately, we had met each other after school and work so we each had our own cars. I fumbled for my keys, unlocked my doors, climbed into the front seat, and locked them promptly after. I sat down, put the keys in the ignition and put my hands on the steering wheel.

I gripped tight and then let go.

And that's when I saw the ring. The ring that he had given me exactly one year before tonight.

I clumsily tugged it off my finger. I pulled and pulled and pulled. It didn't want to come off just as much as I didn't want to let go.