Chapter 1

I look back and I think sometimes that being in love ruined my life. I can’t even talk about it. I can’t even write about it. Everything that I try to explain becomes something frankenstiened, some sort of cracked-up version of the truth. I can’t stand telling someone something of that nature without the truth. The only truth is that it unlocked an insanity inside of me.

Was I in love? Yes. I was in love once with a savage, a vampire, an engine between my legs that guzzled gasoline as much as Gatorade and good, good times. I was in love with a man where the money was nothing in comparison to the time. I was in love with a vodka martini, stirred and with a twist.

The problem? I was a Manhattan with extra cherries. I was simply a dog trying to lick the sweat between my lover’s toes. I was an animal. I was hunted ... No, I wasn’t. I wasn’t.

I wanted to write a love story. Can you believe I wanted to write a love story? So why couldn’t I write one? Why do I even have to? Why do most people think that any single story worth its salt boiled down is a love story? Why can’t the act itself be the gift? Why can’t the story itself be the love that we crave? Why can’t it be the love we need? There’re probably some answers to some of these questions, and they probably sound like some spiritual-mumbo-jumbo about self-love and self-care and that’s great. Really. It’s still not enough. Sometimes I feel like I have some kind of love story bubbling up my in my stomach, in my sternum. It expands to something dangerous in my heart, drawn and quartered something vital inside; sometimes it seizes my lungs ... Just a fact of communication missed and wires crossed and nothing but sickness, sickness, sickness. Am I an infection? Is love the disease?

There has to be something said for wanting. Only, if only because I don’t want any of it. I want to tell the story but I don’t want it to be mine. If I was someone else I would say the magic words and it wouldn’t be mine. At least not anymore. It could leave me and I could hack it out, take some over-the-counter medicine and be a little tired but good. Just good.

The problem:

I was anything but good, and really, he was the sweetest, sweetest thing.

So, I will tell you a story, but remember, she is not me.

“Hello, lover.”

Lover Boy whips his head to the left and the surprise on his face bleeds into an astonished half-smile molasses slow and sugary. He takes a deep breath and his shoulders sag as he leans against the door frame crossing his arms and his ankles; the heel of his boot makes a thud against the wall where he perches it. He takes a moment’s pause.

“Emily,” Lover Boy’s tongue sneaks out just a bit to wet the corner of his bottom lip. “Now, what’re you doin’ here at such a time? Nobody comes into the bakery until at least 7:45, and here I thought 6:30 was only in your vocabulary when it came to PM.”

Emily didn’t have to see him to know the smug smile that was etched across his sharp features, so she scoffed and continued reaching for the sugary pink treat despite being caught red-handed—so to speak.

“Brought some coffee,” Emily offered as she gestured lazily to the side of her, paying more attention to carefully unwrapping her cupcake than to Lover Boy. “Yours is the one without the tea bag. Just in case you couldn’t figure it out.” She spares him a side-glance and quirks her eyebrow tongue-in-cheek challenging as she bites into the cupcake. Icing smears onto the tip of her nose and sticks to her top lip.

His laughter is bright, ringing throughout the shop and dancing with the rest of the prism rainbows like old friends. He pushes himself off the wall and strides over to where Emily is perched on the counter next to the glass casing; a cloud of flour follows in his wake. He takes back up his original position, leaning against the counter this time, and picks up his coffee. Taking the top off, the steam rises, and he gently purses his lips, blowing the billowy tendrils softly before taking a sip. The milky foam gives him a moustache, frothy and light. When he looks towards Emily, he beams all childlike and amused before whipping it off with the rolled-up sleeve of his button-up, setting the cup back down.

“Y’got me a latte from Revolutionary Lounge?”

As a response, Emily mirrors him and licks her top lip, gathering some of the icing on the tip of her tongue. Her eyes dart to the dimples on his cheeks.

“Like you didn’t know the moment I said ‘coffee.’”

Lover Boy gives a playful shrug, bumping his elbow against Emily’s side before taking his thumb and swiping at the icing still left on her nose. He brings it up to his mouth and sucks on the edge and hollows his cheeks just slightly; the black of his painted nails a stark contrast to the cherry of his lips.

“Y’know...” He says conversationally, rolling his words like they’re sticky in his mouth, honeyed and worth savoring, “I don’t think cupcakes are necessarily the most nutritious way to start off the morning.”

“You’re just lucky I didn’t go straight for the banana cream pie filling I know you keep underneath the counter.”

“Is that why you came here then? To get my banana cream?” Lover Boy’s smile is boyish as he leans to the side to get a better—fuller—view of Emily as he teases his tongue between his teeth, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively, devil-may-care attitude just underneath the skin.

Emily makes a choking noise deep in her throat as she tries to stifle her laughter with a mouth full of cupcake. She pressed the palm of her hand just below the top of his sternum—where the buttons on his glossy black button-up (finally) start to meet again—and halfheartedly shoves at him. Solid but lean, a clean handprint now on his shirt and a puff of flour in the air, Lover Boy moves loose with the motion giving a slow body roll before settling back in and shooting Emily with a fast grin.