When Girlfriends Break Hearts (9 page)

I loved Emily, but the trouble was that she was always off on some other continent, volunteering, gaining some skill, practicing a trade, teaching English, or learning a knew language, and always photographing. Emily had a brilliant knack for the camera and her love for her hobby of photography showed in each and every photo. Whenever she arrived home, however short the sabbatical, all the girls would plan a photo-viewing and story-telling night.
 

Emily was rarely at home with the rest of us here in Seattle, where she actually kept a small one-bedroom apartment in the district of Fremont that she used as her permanent residence. The best way for any of us to keep in touch with her, and her often spontaneous travel plans, was via email. I probably sent Emily an email once or twice a month, just checking in to see what remote village in Africa she was visiting or how her multi-week-long boat travels along the Amazon were going. And of course I’d share with her the happenings of my world, though the news definitely paled in comparison to her adventures.

The next email I would send Emily, however, would not cover the extravagant cake I decorated, or how I thought Claire’s dog was Satan’s little helper. The email I would write that afternoon would include all of the unbelievable events of the past twenty-four hours. The email would bring Emily up to speed on the latest, because even though she would be in Ghana for another five months, she wanted to stay in-the-know with all goings-on back at home.
 

The email would also serve as a form of self-therapy, which I was desperately in need of. And soliciting Emily’s opinion was another top objective. Emily was generally a straight-headed woman. She had an opinion and almost always voiced it (sometimes rather loudly), and if you asked for it she would definitely share. But always in a kind and constructive way, as her extreme open-mindedness could often invite debate.

It felt relieving to put my thoughts out there. I hit the “Send” button, eager to receive her response. Certainly Emily would have some pearls of wisdom that could help out a sad soul like me.

***

“Schnicker, stop it. Stop. Stop. Calm down now.” Claire was back from her afternoon with Schnickerdoodle.

And not far behind was Conner. “Schnickerdoodle, sit. Sit. Sit.”

There was never any training that dog. Schnickerdoodle was a mutt with a lust for life. He couldn’t sit still for more than two seconds. And never on command.

“Hey, guys,” I called out from the kitchen. I was rifling through Claire’s and Conner’s collection of takeout menus. “How was the park?”

Conner tossed his keys exhaustedly onto the kitchen counter, immediately opening the fridge and reaching in for an ice cold Bud Light. “Forget having kids,” he said, taking a sip of the cool beverage. “This dog’s a handful.”

“Ha-ha,” Claire said exaggeratedly, joining us in the kitchen. Schnickerdoodle was not far behind, hot on Claire’s heels for the rawhide treat she always fed him after walks. I guess it was his reward for being…her dog. “He’s a lovely doggie. Aren’t you, Schnicker? Aren’t you? Aren’t you?” Claire coddled and cooed at him like he was an infant.

“How are you doing?” Conner asked me. He took a seat on one of the kitchen counter barstools, some of the furniture that found its way from Conner’s college days and into their cute house. “Claire briefed me.”

I figured she would. There were virtually no secrets between Claire and Conner. Unlike my relationship with Brandon. And Robin, for that matter.

Conner continued, “He’s a bastard and she’s a big ho. You don’t need either of them.”

“Conner,” Claire protested. “That’s not going to help anyone.”

“It’s true! They’re both liars and cheaters and life’s too short for douches like that.”
 

Claire crossed her arms disapprovingly. “You’re not being any help, so just stop talking. Go play your Xbox or something. Don’t instigate.”

“He’s fine, Claire,” I interceded. “Thanks for the support, Conner.” He gave me a wink, then hopped off the stool to most likely answer Claire’s command to play some video game.

“So, what are we doing for dinner?” Claire asked.
 

I was grateful for the change of topic. After sending Emily’s email off, I decided I would spend the rest of the day doing anything
but
thinking about my demise. I wanted to put all-things-Brandon and -Robin out of my mind for the rest of the day and, hopefully, evening. Although, I was growing confident that another crying spell was due soon, so a tear-soaked pillow was probably in the cards.
 

“Some Chinese or burgers, or how about Italian?” she offered.

“No Italian,” I said. I didn’t want to be reminded of the previous night. No lasagna, tiramisu, or Chianti at all.
 

“Let’s get burritos then. I’m craving some Mexican. You?” Claire looked eager.

It was a rare occasion when I turned down a platter of chicken fajitas, and this was not going to be one of those moments. “Mexican it is.” I reached for my cell phone. “My treat,” I added.

“No, no.”
 

“Yes, you’ve done so much for me, Claire. It’s a small way to say thank you. The least I could do.”

She smiled and gave in. “Deal. And don’t forget, you still owe me that jog in the park.”
 

“You’ve got it. Does tomorrow sound good? After work?”
 

“We’ve got a date!”

***

That night the three of us wolfed down some of the tastiest take-out Mexican food in the area. My chicken fajitas were the perfect answer to a stomach that had not been fed all day. And the Corona to wash it down with was ice cold and delicious.
 

Huddled over the coffee table, sitting comfortably on the sofa, Claire, Conner, and I spent the night doing everything and anything but talking about the disaster that had recently unfolded in my life. The evening of food south of the border and entertainment thanks to
The Daily Show
and a rerun of
Extreme House Makeover
were soothing and perfectly distracting.
 

I looked at my company and knew that in the darkness of it all, there was still some shining light, however small. I had a dear friend in Claire and her boyfriend was nothing shy of supportive. I knew that I could pick up my feet slowly but surely and take the necessary steps to move on. How or when I would do it I had no idea. But I knew it was possible. Eventually. Time heals all wounds, right?

Chapter Ten

Time couldn’t pass or heal fast enough. It was Monday and that meant work. After a weekend like mine, work was the last thing on my mind. But the bills wouldn’t magically go away, and I wouldn’t get any closer to opening up my own business if I slacked off; besides, like Claire said, work would take my mind off my problems. So I had to go.

I pulled my car around the back of the building where
Katie’s Kitchen
was located. Sometimes the Seattle traffic was too terrible to brave and I’d hop the bus, but being in a confined space with a bunch of strangers didn’t seem very appealing in my particular state of woe-is-me. Driving solo with angry girl music was a much better solution.

Katie’s Kitchen
was located in Belltown, a funky corner of Seattle where laid-back artsy crowds meet with condo-buying, once-were-frat-boys. While it had a scruffy and mellow feel to it, this particular part of town also had a very chic and upscale feel. Denny Regrade, as it was sometimes called, was a place to be and be seen. Classes, like so many neighborhoods in Seattle, converged and meshed quite well here. The hollowed out warehouses that lined Denny Regrade were slowly but surely becoming the next-best restaurants or hotels, or the must-visit bars, nightclubs, and late-night-dining joints. It was a pretty hip place and I loved working in the area.
 

Katie’s Kitchen
fit like a glove in Belltown. The kitchen was located in an industrial, although converted, warehouse and it suited the business’ needs perfectly. The front entrance wasn’t anything super attractive or inviting, but it was enough to do the job of providing a front door for inquiring clients to enter and meet in the small consultation room. The rest of the space was designated industrial kitchen square footage. A serious baker’s or cook’s dream. While clientele parked up front, all of the staff parked in the back and used the large service entrance at the rear for all purposes—going to and from work, and of course loading the vans with scads of delectable foods.
 

As much as I love my job, I can’t help but think of how wonderful it would be to pull up in front of my very own corner bakery and café. How fun it would be to know that that shop was mine and I could put however many hours in that I wanted, change up the menu whichever way I pleased, prepare and present things in my own time and in my own way.
 

Katie’s Kitchen
had taught me pretty much everything I know about cooking and baking, and I will always be grateful for the work, the experience, and the career that
Katie’s
has given me over the years. But at some point, I (and Katie) knew that I would have to stretch my wings and set off on my own baking adventure. Well, some day. For now everything was grist for the mill and showing up to work, period, was an adventure taken and job accomplished.

“Hey, Oliver!” I said to my cake baking and design partner as I routinely slung my purse, scarf, and coat over the hat rack near the back door entrance of the kitchen. “How’s things?”

“Not bad, not bad,” he answered in his strong French accent. “Preparing cannoli shells.” He raised one up.
 

“Beautiful.” My plan was to stay as upbeat and positive as I could. I didn’t want to cry into batter and I didn’t want to have my personal problems affect my work. “Want some help or should I work on something else?”

Since Oliver was the resident French pastry guru, brilliant cake designer, and had many more years on me (both age-wise and in the time he’d been at
Katie’s Kitchen
), I looked to Oliver as my pseudo boss.

“I’ve got zees handled for now,” he said. “They’re going to be picked up by zee client at eleven. So you can help me fill them shortly before, okay? Say ten thirty, okay? Only have fifty to do.”

“Freshness is perfection. I’ve got it.” A cannoli that was stuffed well in advance of consumption was a classic mistake. These Italian delights were to be filled and eaten only minutes apart. Since we worked in the catering department where delivery and consumption times varied, we did the best we could and always strove to make each order as perfect and as original as possible. Of course, I personally would never turn down a cannoli that had been stuffed a few hours prior to serving time.

I slipped on my bright orange apron and pulled my hair up into a quick and messy bun.

“Hey, Sophie,” Katie said as she walked into the main baking kitchen, leaves of paper in one hand, a pencil in the other. “Until Oliver needs you I need your help with some petit fours. We have a huge order for tomorrow afternoon and we need to finish them up before the end of today.”

“Oh great, leave the Frenchman with the Italian food and not the petit fours.” Katie and I knew Oliver was half-joking. He brought entertainment and an endearing international flair to the table.

“You’ll be getting on those too, Oliver,” Katie called. “Once those babies are done it’s nothing but petit fours coming out of our ears.”

Oliver nodded his head, his billowing white chef’s hat bouncing with his nod. Katie wasn’t strict on hair nets or classic chef hats. She did demand our hair be confined and if frizzy or loose, then a hair net or a hat was a must. But the only golden rule was to sport the signature orange apron and cook and bake the finest foods and goods in town. Oliver’s French-ness, we both surmised, demanded he wear his special chef’s hat. We loved that he did it, even though he looked beyond ridiculous, his ears sticking out even farther than normal.

“Three hundred,” Katie said exaggeratedly. “We have three hundred of these petit fours. Got about half completely done, thank God. Going to be a
long
day.” She patted me on the shoulder and left for the main cooking kitchen, no doubt to deal with the slew of orders that were chalked on their menu for the day.

I decided that the overwhelming and busy day would be just the antidote to the pile of crap I had been swimming in since Saturday night. I could pull off co-making and co-decorating one hundred and fifty petit fours without a single tear or tiny breakdown, right?

***

Wrong. I’d managed a couple of hours without a hiccup—but it was when I was stuffing my fifth or sixth cannoli when I felt a surge of pain. Apparently the monotony of the work at hand was too much to bear. It wasn’t enough distraction, I guess, despite Oliver’s one-way conversation, telling me all about his fabulous weekend at the symphony and the theater (a double whammy) with his partner, Pascal, the lead chef at one of downtown Seattle’s swankiest French restaurants.

In the middle of his story I lied that I needed to use the restroom, and quickly slipped off in that direction.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
I clicked the lock shut, pressed my back against the door, and stared into the mirror across the way.
Don’t cry, Sophie. Do not cry.

I had been doing so well. Why the abrupt change? Would this pain ever end? How long would I be dragging this mess around with me everywhere? I couldn’t let something that I didn’t do—that I didn’t ask for—get in the way of my career. Of my happiness. Of my life.
Damn Brandon and Robin.
Just thinking their names encouraged a few tears to sneak out.
 

Dammit.
I quickly wiped at my eyes, carefully trying to avoid smudging my eyeliner or mascara. I did not want to bring my drama to work and I did not want to do anything that would draw attention to myself. I knew that if I looked the slightest bit upset Katie would ask what was wrong and then I’d be forced to spill the whole embarrassing story.