Heartbreak Cake (10 page)

“You ever been in love?” Teresa says, eyeing me curiously.

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“It was wonderful. Then it fell apart,” I say nonchalantly, even though I don’t feel that way. “Sometimes things just fall apart and you can’t piece them together again.”

“Did you fight for him?” she asks. “I did. Or at least I think I did.”

“Maybe you didn’t try hard enough.”

I think about Josh’s face this afternoon and the way he looked like he wanted to say something to me. It’s the same look he has given me the last year, his face full of emotion, but the words and the action never materialize.

Yes, I fought for him and I waited for him, but maybe I made it too easy for him since I was always there giving him everything he wanted. Me, her, and his family. Maybe if I had actually walked away, he would’ve had the chance to miss me, long for me, and remember me. Instead, I got a secret life, a lot of Chinese takeout, and a lot of nights crying myself to sleep.

No. I would say Josh never fought for
me
.

“I tried as hard as I could. And now it’s up to him.” I shrug, feeling resentment and disappointment surge through me.

Teresa pats my hand sweetly and shoves the brownie pan my way. “You’re gonna be alright,” she says.

“I know. Just not tonight.” I take a gulp from my wine glass.

***

Forever a good Girl Scout, little Miss Teresa, I think, as I tuck a pillow behind her head and take the cell phone that she’s holding like a stuffed animal. Snuggled up against my chenille blanket, Teresa passed out on my couch after she declared herself too drunk to drive.

She spent the last hour of the evening calling herself “Mrs. Oscar Padilla” in a voice louder than my neighbors probably appreciated. But I felt accomplished. At least I was able to save a relationship. And three hundred mini caramel-apple pies.

I hear my phone vibrate against my wooden kitchen table, and I know it’s just another message from Rebecca who has spent the better part of the evening giving me strategy tips on dealing with Valentina.

I shuffle over to my kitchen table while munching on a piece of celery and hit the envelope icon that has 2 unread messages listed.

Lunch was fun and unexpected. How’d you like to be my date for the dinner at Crystal Cove tomorrow night? I know its last minute and I should probably call and ask, but I’m in the middle of finishing up dinner and didn’t want to wait until it was too late. What do you think? Do you have any free time for a little fun?

Noah Cavatelli. I’m surprised and flattered.

We were flirty today, no doubt about it, but restaurant people can be that way—it’s what one does to get through a shift. You eat too many warm dinner rolls to stave off the hunger and you flirt with your coworkers mercilessly. None of it can mean a thing.

But I could use some fun. Noah may just be the perfect antidote to my broken heart. He’s fun, flirty, a talented chef, and just the right amount of carefree bad boy to make things interesting.

Maybe my mother was right. “
Otro clavo saca otro clavo.”
One nail takes out another nail. Or as Rebecca has been telling me since we were eighteen, “The best way to get over someone, is to get under someone new.”

I’d love it,
I reply.

Wonderful, look forward to having you as my date. Everyone will be envious.

Isn’t he sweet?

My phone vibrates to remind me I still have a pending unread message, which I click to find two words. Two words that always pull me back in for more.

Miss You.

Chapter 9

“What is this fashion statement?

Rebecca and I are in front of the tamale man at the Long Beach Farmer’s Market for a morning chili verde run. I’m wearing my chef whites on my way to the bakery and Rebecca looks like the portrait of an athlete on her way to eternal milfdom. Her curly red hair is thrown into a messy ponytail, long toned legs peek out of tiny running shorts, and a body-hugging orange tank top makes her green eyes pop.

But for all of her beauty, I can’t stop staring at her feet. “It’s the closest I can get to running barefoot, which is better for my form,” Rebecca says while she shuffles her neon green five-fingered running shoes that make her look like Kermit the Frog. “Grow up! I get the best work out with these shoes.”

“They look like you have gloves on your feet. I can see your toes,” I snicker.

“Keep it up and I’m going to take my tamale and go home.”

“You’re still beautiful, despite your comical shoe choice. Look, even Maggie is giving Suri Cruise a run for her money.”

Maggie sits reclined in her three-thousand-dollar, state- of-the-art jogging buggy and gives me a charming smile from beneath her floppy sunhat.

“Two green chili tamales and two watermelon agua frescas.” I hand a ten dollar bill to the tamale man, who stares at Rebecca’s feet. He gives me a wink and we both quietly titter.

“Doesn’t Josh run this market?” Rebecca crinkles her nose as if she just smelled something bad.

“He helped start it, but he’s only here on Tuesdays, not Saturdays.”

“Glad to see you’re still tracking his schedule,” she says dryly, giving me a pointed stare.

“Listen, all I want is to have a breakfast tamale with my best friend and meet with Clifford, the apple farmer,” I say lightly. “Nothing more, I promise. So do you think you can you ease up on being so harsh? It’s not helpful.”

“Sorry,” she says glumly and then we both stand there awkwardly, neither one of us comfortable with the subject.

“Who’s Clifford? You got a hot date or something?” Rebecca asks gently.

“If you mean a hot date with a crate of Ginger Golds for empanadas I am making for Stephanie’s dessert bar, then yes. These apples are crisp, tart and roll-your-eyes sublime.”

“You’re doing it.” Rebecca sing songs. “Doing what?”

“Talking about produce like its porn.”

We both laugh, and the tension between us eases enough that I tell her about my mini-date with Noah tonight and our flirty lunch at the hotel. I confide how Josh had texted me, but I forgot to answer him back.

“That’s how you do it.” Rebecca slurps on her agua fresca.

“It may take a while before it doesn’t affect me, but it’s a good start.”

“I think I understand why you chose not to talk to me about all this. I know I’m not very sensitive or supportive.”

“I didn’t think you would be, but it does surprise me because of, you know…him.

Rebecca snaps her head up and looks at me, surprised. I have spoken the unspoken.

Before Rebecca met Richard, and she happily became R& R, she spent her twenties involved with Benoit Durand, a much-too-handsome attorney who was older, powerful, and played Rebecca like a master puppeteer.

Bennie swept her off her feet, but then left her dangling. Never called her when he said he would, forgot birthdays and anniversaries, and he left Rebecca waiting for him at restaurants so many times it became the norm rather than the exception. But for some reason, Rebecca forgave everything he did; always second guessing and blaming herself for never being good enough to keep Bennie around.

I watched her from the sidelines, hoping one day soon she would finally see what a complete ass he was, but it took her a really long time to get to that place.

On her 30th birthday, after four years of dating, Rebecca spent her big day picking up his laundry, taking his terrier to the dog groomer, and getting his Audi convertible washed. All because she thought he was whipping up a surprise birthday dinner—something he had eluded to a month before.

But he never came through for her, and she ended up alone and at my house on her birthday. The next day we packed up her belongings and she moved in with me and spent the first week in bed sobbing, only getting up for wine, cake, and episodes of
Felicity
.

He didn’t make it easy, the first few days he tried to get her to come back home, promising he would change and buy her a trip to Paris as a belated birthday gift. She nearly went back, but I had asked her to just wait a few weeks to make sure he wasn’t just using his negotiating tricks on her either. First he would call her begging her to come back, and then the phone went silent—which was almost worse, especially since Rebecca knew he had started dating one of their coworkers at the firm where they all worked.

“Bastard,” Rebecca says looking at me. “French bastard,” I remind her.

“I forgot,” she sighs heavily. “I purposely forgot what I went through with Benoit because it was such a horrible experience. I felt like shit for such a long time, and I guess I still have trouble watching someone else go through it. It’s just so painful.”

“It is painful. Try and remember that.”

“I’m sorry for being so harsh. I know you were there for me every step. Literally. I think you walked me to the bathroom one night.”

“I did.”

Rebecca shudders at the memory.

“I’m a jerk.” She wrings her hands. “I only want you to get to the other side.”

“I know you do, which is why I haven’t smacked you for being rude to me. Just know I’m making my way. Molasses slow,” I admit.

“I promise to be more sensitive and to let you talk about Josh without any snide comments or eye rolls— within reason! If you are being a fool, I have to tell you.”

“Fine, I’ll take it. Just stop with the angry emoticons. Freaks me out!”

“Got it.” Rebecca gives me a warm dimpled smile, and I feel closer to her than I have in a long time. “Do we hug now?” she asks.

“How about you buy me a churro instead?”

“Deal.” Rebecca nods and takes her five-fingered feet over to the crowded line forming in front of the churro cart. “Don’t you dare forget the Nutella dip,” I holler after her.

I meander down to the produce section, poking around the stalls, noticing the slow turn of late summer making way for fall. Ruby red grapefruits, golden beets, Asian pears, clusters of grapes, and bright orange pumpkins are beginning to take the place of summer peaches, melons, and plums.

But for me, the official symbol of the arrival of the fall season is Clifford Matsumoto.

“Have you had a Rome Beauty?” He holds out a dark red apple wedge. “It’s a great cooking apple. They stay firm and hold that deep red coloring.”

“What about the taste?” I take a bite and it snaps loudly. “It’s good, but it doesn’t have a lot of tart, could end up a bit bland after I roast them.”

“I doubt that, but may be a good one for crumbles then? That way it’s already swimming in butter and sugar. Taste won’t matter, firmness will.”

“I’ll take two dozen, make some mini apple buckles.” I smile as Cliff gives me a big wink and starts to pile the apples into a wood basket.

“I miss you during the summer months.”

“I know you cheat on me with the peach guy.”

“It doesn’t mean anything, Cliff…it’s just stone fruit. You know how fickle they are.”

Cliff and I laugh companionably. Years of working together has made us seasonal family, and I look forward to hearing his analytics of the apple and to get his food science geek on when it comes to his family orchard. We both can talk about apples in a way not many could understand or want to.

“My mom has been adding heirloom apples to the farm, so we’ve got a few to share, but next year, expect an entire new line of heirloom mini apples,” Clifford says, adjusting his horn-rimmed glasses and smoothing his red apron with an “Annie Apple Farms” logo on it.

“Everything mini is adorable. Babies, cupcakes, muffins, tarts—make it mini, put it on stick, and you will find success.”

“That’s what I hear,” Clifford says distractedly, his eyes darting around the market. Rebecca heads our way pushing the stroller with one hand and swinging a bag that reads, “Mr.Churro,” from her elbow.