Four
JACK
Flying solo just means you’ll have stronger wings.
—SOLO FEBRUARY CHALLENGE
I can’t believe I’m talking to Sora freakin’ Reid. We were in the same classroom almost every year in elementary school from kindergarten to fifth grade. I might have had a serious crush on her some, or, okay, okay—most of those years. And anytime Sora was around me then, I usually had an anxious swarm of bees in my stomach. For most of my childhood, I actually thought pretty girls caused stomachaches.
Of course, I know most kids weren’t even interested in romance then. But I couldn’t help but notice Sora—half Japanese, half Scottish, all gorgeous. I felt like we were meant to be together. I’m a quarter Chinese, a quarter Portuguese, a quarter Irish, and a quarter your guess is as good as mine.
She’s seriously prettier than she was in elementary school. I didn’t think it possible, but it’s true: pink, perfect lips, doe-brown eyes, dark, luscious, jet-black hair. And she’s just as sweet and caring as I remember. I can tell she wanted to tell her ex to go to hell, but she took the high road. She always did that, even in kindergarten.
“I can’t believe this!” she squeals. “Like, how have you been?” She’s glad to see me. I am stupidly elated about this. “I mean … you’re like … so tall. When did this even happen?”
“Puberty?” I joke, and she laughs.
We spend a few more seconds grinning goofily at each other. She eyes me up and down.
“You’ve just…” She seems dumbfounded. “Changed so much.”
“Yeah, I know, I used to be different back then.” Short. Pudgy. On the heavy side of stocky. I grew about three feet in high school. Learned to work out more and eat healthier, but still never really lost my taste for sweets. Thus … baking. “But look at you…” I wave my arms like a maniac. That perfect dimpled and gorgeous smile. “You look amazing.”
“I basically just rolled out of bed.”
“You still look great.” She makes that faded sweatshirt she’s wearing with the loose neck hole showing off quite a bit of shoulder look sexy AF, like it should be on the cover of a lingerie catalog.
A blush rises on her cheeks. “Whatever happened to you? You like, disappeared after fifth grade?”
“Family moved,” I said. “We ended up a few suburbs over.”
“So that’s what happened! I wondered.”
She did? Sora Reid thought about me for even a millisecond? The thought makes my heart thump a bit harder.
A few people wander by behind her at the samples table, hoping to get some tortes, but I’m in a happy nostalgia bubble and I don’t want to leave. I refuse to make eye contact with the man in a trucker’s hat who’s back for a third time for tortes.
“Excuse me?” Trucker Hat says, trying to reach a big paw in and grab another sample torte. “Can I get one of those?”
“You’ve already had one,” I say, shooing him away like a fly. Get out of here, man. I’m trying to talk to my grade-school crush.
“But she had more…”
I glare at him, and he backs off, wheeling his cart away.
“Wait!” she exclaims. “You had a nickname back then. I remember … what was it?”
No. Please no.
She snaps her fingers. “Piggy Jack!”
Oh.
Jesus.
“I hate that name.” I sigh.
Hated it ever since Boyan Debnar labeled me with it in kindergarten after he dared me to stuff my whole sandwich in my mouth at lunch. He thought it was so clever. Piggy Back. Piggy Jack. One of those perfect damn insults I couldn’t shake until I grew big enough to intimidate people.
She looks instantly contrite. “Oh my God. I am so sorry. That’s a terrible name,” she says, her face growing pink. Oh, great. Now she feels bad. “I just remembered and blurted it out. I didn’t mean anything by it. I just…” She glances down as if wishing the floor would open up and swallow her whole.
“No big deal. We were kids.” I shrug. The past has no control over me. I control how I feel about my past. Push through it, Jack. This isn’t the first time your past has reared its fat head. Punch it in the face. I take a deep breath.
“But, I mean…” She gives me a slow once-over, starting at my feet and working her way up my body. “You’ve changed so much. I mean so much.” She shakes her head in disbelief. “I mean … wow.”
Please don’t say I’ve lost weight. Every time someone reminds me I was a chubby kid, it makes me think I’m walking around in a meat suit. That I’m an imposter. I mean, sure, I’ve long since banished those fat rolls with bland, tasteless lean chicken and vegetable meals for days, but I hate it when people act so shocked, like it’s a magic trick I should be perfecting for live television.
“I mean, your legs are so freakin’ long. You would totally win every single race to the swings at recess.”
“You remember our race to the swings?” I’m honestly surprised.
“Of course. It was always you and me, racing for the last one!”
“You always won,” I say. I know this because I always, without fail, let her.
“Yeah. I did.”
She laughs. I laugh. This feels warm and comfy and perfect. Like hot chocolate and flannel pajamas on a snow day.
“Oh my gosh. Remember Mrs. Perez’s fifth-grade class? All the holiday parties?”
“She’d always bring a tray of those holiday cookies from Jewel,” I say, remembering the oohs and aahs that rippled through the class when she set the giant tray of colorful, fun-shaped cookies on the reading table. “I loved Valentine’s Day the best. She always brought extra lollipops!”
“That woman was so brave. Loading up all us ten-year-olds with sugar! Can you imagine?”
I laugh. “She was brave to be in there with us to begin with!”
“Yeah.” Sora pauses. Stares at me in a dramatic way, long, dark lashes framing her big brown eyes, alight with … mischief, and something more. My heart lightens a bit. Is this when she remembers that I put a special card in her glitter-glue-decorated shoebox? I’d debated for an hour which Rugrats valentine to give her: I like you or Will you be mine? A whole hour. “Remember the shoeboxes we decorated for Valentine’s?”
“Oh. Yeah.”
This is going really well. Like, better than I could’ve expected. Like, surprisingly good.
“And you stole the candy from my box!” she declares, and laughs.
Somewhere, I hear a record scratch—errrrrrrck—and then someone takes that vinyl, throws it on the ground, pours lighter fluid on it, and sets it on fire.
“That’s right.” She wags a finger at me. “You stole all of my valentines and my candy—even the lollipop from Mrs. Perez! The only thing in my box was your card. With your name on it.” She cackles. “Now, I can totally give you shit for it!”
She slaps me playfully on the arm, but I’m still in shock. She’s smiling now, as if we can share an inside joke, but … I didn’t steal her candy! Never took her valentines. What kind of jerk kid would that make me?
“I didn’t do that.” I sound offended. I don’t mean to sound offended. I just absolutely, positively, did not steal her candy. Her smile instantly fades.
“You didn’t?” She frowns, looking temporarily confused. The conversation suddenly turns awkward. The easy banter hits a brick wall. Sora tucks an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “Oh. Maybe … I’m wrong? I just thought … someone said…” She freezes then. We both freeze, staring at each other, the same realization dawning. Someone probably told her Piggy Jack stole the candy. Because why not blame the chubby kid? I’d be the perfect scapegoat.
Okay, this isn’t going well. It’s going terribly. Horribly. It can’t get worse.
Then it does.
Because somewhere behind Sora, I see my worst nightmare—Mal, my ex-fiancée, approaching, looking like some kind of Nordic goddess. The kind that likes to disembowel men and send them to Valhalla, screaming.
“Mal,” I blurt, horrified. What the hell is this, buy one, get one ex day at Margo’s? First Sora’s ex, and now mine. Is Mercury in retrograde? Has someone read aloud from the Book of the Dead? None of this is okay.
“Hey, Jack-a-boo,” she says, using the nickname she gave me that I hate. “You ready for lunch?”
Lunch? Then it hits me: she’s been texting. Promising—or threatening, more like—to drop by. I’d ignored her, as I always do. She clearly failed to take the hint.
I’m staring at Sora, who glances from Mal to me and draws all the wrong conclusions.
“Mal, I—”
“I made reservations at your favorite place!” She turns and looks at Sora. “Oh, hello. Did I interrupt something?”
Yes, you did.
“Uh…” Sora’s eyes widen.
“I’m Mal,” she says, extending a black-gloved hand.
Sora looks like she wishes she could teleport out of here. “I’m Sora,” she says, and reaches out her own hand. Mal pinches Sora’s knuckle between her finger and thumb as if it’s toxic.
“Sara?”
“Sora,” I emphasize.
“Nice to meet you, Sadie.” Now I know she’s doing this on purpose. That wasn’t even close. Mal releases Sora’s hand.
“Uh, yeah. Well, I was just going.” Sora begins to slowly back away from my table. Wait. No. Don’t go. “Great to see you, Jack!” Sora cries, as she squeezes the handle of her cart so tightly her knuckles turn white.
“Sora, wait…” I want to explain. This isn’t … Mal isn’t … You’ve got the wrong idea. Completely. Utterly. Wrong. Come back. Please.
“Thanks for the tortes!” Sora calls over her shoulder with a little too much forced cheer. And just like the last day of fifth grade, she’s gone.
“Look what you’ve done,” I growl at Mal.
“What? Saved you from your sad little fangirl Sonar?”
“It’s Sora. S-O-R-A.”
“Whatever.” Mal fans her face with a black leather glove. She’s carrying a bag that cost more than my rent, and her coat is lined with real baby chinchilla, which says all you need to know about Mal. Her green eyes sparkle with mischief. She actually likes making me suffer. “Please, you’ve always got these desperate, pathetic little grocery store fans around you all the time.” She sniffs as she glances around the supermarket, making her disdain known.
“Well, I think we both know I wouldn’t be working here if it weren’t for you.” If it weren’t for Mal, I would be a pastry chef at a Michelin-star restaurant. Which I was, a year ago.
“Well, if you’d stayed engaged to me, you wouldn’t have to work at all.” She’s referring to her hotel heiress money and her offer of making me a kept man. Why—oh why—did I ever let her into my life? God, I regret that decision. Today and every day.
“Why are you here?”
“Lunch. I texted you.”
“And I didn’t respond.”
“And…?”
“And that means I didn’t agree to lunch.” I sigh.
“Does it?” Mal fakes innocence.
“And I can’t take a lunch break now. There’s no one else to run the bakery.” And even if there was, no way would I go to lunch with Mal. Never.
“Oh? Well, I just wanted to talk, anyway. I made some calls. About that bakery site you’re interested in.” She arches a perfectly penciled brow.
“How do you know about that?” Every alarm bell in my brain sounds. The bakery is my dream. It’s my ticket out of the grocery store. I’ve clawed some savings from my meager checks all year just to have enough for a down payment.
“I have friends. In your real estate agent’s office.” The alert in my gut moves from orange to full code red.
“That’s stalking.” And probably a hundred other offenses, all of which any of her army of on-retainer attorneys could get her out of with one phone call.
“It’s professional courtesy,” she says. “And it’s not stalking. You’re just playing hard to get.”
“I’m sure that’s what Glenn Close said to Michael Douglas.” I am 100 percent sure Mal isn’t above boiling a rabbit if it’ll get my attention.
“Who?” She frowns.
“Fatal Attraction?” I add.
She just slow blinks. Mal doesn’t watch movies—old classics or any other kind. Also, she only listens to music that’s in commercials. I should’ve run for the hills when she admitted that. I didn’t. My fault.
“It’s a movie.” I sigh, irritated. “And, anyway, I didn’t ask you to help me with the bakery.”
“I know. I want to.” She reaches out and clutches my hand. Her palms are cold, fingers frigid. It reminds me of the time she dug her frozen feet between my legs in bed. I should’ve known then that her heart was ice. Couldn’t pump blood to her extremities.
I snatch my hand away.
“I can get them to sell,” she offers, overly glossed lips parting. “Then I’d own the building and you could stay there rent free.”
“Mal, I don’t want your help. I don’t need your help.”
She pouts, jutting out her lower lip, which looks like it got an extra boost of collagen recently. She can afford a whole team of medical professionals to keep her looking perfect. It’s all a facade. “Of course you need my help.”
“Mal.” The word’s a warning.
“Okay, okay, hands off the bakery.” She grins at me, and I can only pray she means it. “If…”
I knew there’s a catch. There’s always a catch.
“If what?” I squint.
“If you invite me to the Golden Chef Awards. I know you were nominated for Best Pastry Chef this year.”
Yes, and right up until this moment, I was happy about that. It’s a huge honor, and the winner gets bragging rights and $100,000.
“And I know you need a plus-one.”
“No.” The idea of Mal being my date for anything—ever—makes me want to poke my eyes out with the blunt piping tip of an icing bag.
“Come on. Please? It’ll be fun.” She leans over the counter, showing me her cleavage. I’m not interested. Might as well be the Valley of Death.
“No.”
Mal frowns. “Come on. Please.” She pauses. “You know I hate to say please.” She toys with a strand of her platinum-blond hair. Her bloodred fingernails are filed down to points, making her look like a vampire. Because she is one. She feeds on human souls. If I could somehow rescind her invitation to my life, I would.
“No. I don’t know how many times I need to say this, but we broke up. Because of what you did last Valentine’s Day.”
Even thinking about the debacle that was last Valentine’s Day makes me want to hurl.
Her lower lip juts farther out.
“You know I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“You slept with your brother-in-law,” I say, exasperation making my throat feel thick. “So what did you think that would accomplish?”
“You know, I have … issues. My parents … my childhood.” Her eyes go glassy. Mal had a rough childhood. Despite being very wealthy, her parents neglected her much of her life, leaving her to be raised by various different nannies, and then when she was old enough, shipped off to boarding school. Her parents, she said, never once said “I love you”—not even in the birthday cards that the butler would sign. For a long time, I felt bad for her. Hell, I wanted to fix her. But you can’t fix someone else. I learned that the hard way. She sniffs, wiping a perfect, single tear off one thick eyelash. “You were the only one who ever really got me.”
“Mal.” I sigh, softer this time. “We can’t do this.”
“You sure felt differently last week.”
Here we go. Last week. When I bumped into Mal at a bar and, after one too many whiskeys on the rocks, made the mistake of going home with her. I just opened the door and let her back into my life. I’d been lonely, and she’d talked about her mother forgetting her birthday, and I felt bad for her. And, also, did I mention too much whiskey?
“That was a mistake.”
Mal whips out her phone and begins typing.
“What are you…”
Then my back pocket dings, announcing an incoming message.
“You didn’t block me,” Mal says, triumphant, as I pull out my phone and see she’s texted me a heart. “So must not have been that much of a mistake.”
“Mal…”
“Jack-a-boo,” she says, and touches my nose with the tip of her red nail. “You’ll always be my valentine.”
“That’s what’s beginning to worry me.”
“You sure you don’t want to come to lunch with me? I have reservations at Omakase.” A Michelin-starred gem where a single sushi roll can cost fifty dollars. “I’ll buy.”
“No.” I shake my head firmly. “I’m not going to lunch with you.”
She shrugs. “Your loss.” She picks up one of the cooling mini lemon tortes off the baking sheet in front of me and lifts it to her lips. She licks the edge. Makes me think about a snake with a forked tongue.
“You’re going to have to pay for that,” I tell her.
“Oh, I hope so.” She pops the torte in her mouth and swallows it, seemingly without chewing. Just like a snake gulping down a mouse. “Think about it, and get back to me.”
“I don’t need to—” She shushes me with a bloodred claw on my lips.
“Shhhh,” she purrs. She scratches the top of my lip as she removes her finger. “Just promise me you’ll think about it.”
“I won’t,” I call after her as she slinks away, moving a little like a scorpion in wedge heels.