Ch. 11 – Paper Smiles, Broken Ribbons
1401 Words
I couldn’t get him out of my skin.
The way his arms had locked around me, hard muscle pressing into soft flesh. The heat of him seeping straight through my clothes. The faint rasp of his breath ghosting my throat until it felt like my lungs belonged to him.
And that look—those icy blue eyes widening when he tasted what I made, like I’d slipped past every wall he’d built. I swore I still felt it burning inside me, as if he’d left fingerprints on my heart.
I touched the places where he’d steadied me. Again. Again. My imagination ran shamelessly ahead: his chest against mine, his mouth finding me, my curves filling his hands like they were made to fit there.
For once, I let myself pretend. Pretend he wanted me. Pretend I was more than a sweet distraction or a body too soft to keep. Pretend this could be real.
“You’re in a good mood.” Jessica’s voice snapped the thread, and I nearly dropped the bowl. “Don’t you think that’s enough?” She tipped her chin toward the dough I’d been kneading into dust.
“Crap.” I tried to rescue it, but the clumps just slid apart. I scraped them into the trash and started over.
Jessica folded her arms. “What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing. I was just… lost in thought.” I kept my gaze down, because if she really looked at me—really looked—she’d know.
“Mom said Blaine was here.” Her tone began sharp, then softened when I glanced up.
“Yeah. He, um… checked the oven.”
“Amara, I don’t like this.” The words came fast, like she’d been holding them in. “He’s bad for you. You’re sweet, you’re trusting—don’t let him play you. Guys like that only want two things from a girl: to get her into bed or to drag her into trouble.”
The line cut deep. My laugh came out harsh. “Girls like me, you mean?” I swept a hand down my body, every curve a target. “Because let’s be real, Jess—no one’s fighting to get this into bed. And no one’s dumb enough to think I’m worth the trouble.”
“Don’t turn this into a weight thing.”
“How can I not? It’s the first thing they see. The only thing they see.” My voice cracked, but the anger stayed sharp.
Jessica tried again, gentler. “That’s not—”
“Oh no?” Heat climbed my throat. “What about that guy you set me up with? Remember him? ‘How could you stick me with a whale like that?’ That’s what he said. To your face.”
Jessica flinched. “Amara—”
“Don’t.” My chest ached. “Don’t stand there with your perfect body and your perfect husband and tell me I’m imagining it. You don’t get it. You’ve never had to fight to be seen.”
Silence settled between us. Finally she let out a tired sigh that made twenty years streak across her face in a single breath. Then she softened, slung an arm around me, and rubbed her cheek against my curls because she knew it tickled. I laughed despite myself.
“That’s not what I came to talk about,” she said, voice going bright in a way I recognized too well.
“No, Jess,” I said, already hearing the tone.
“Just listen—he’s different. One of the hottest guys in Darren’s office. Single. He already saw your picture—”
“Jessica, no!”
“Tonight. Seven o’clock. At Cino’s.” She ripped the words out like a bandage.
“Goddamn it, Jessica!”
I don’t know why I let her talk me into it. That was Jessica’s magic—why she crushed it at marketing and why I always caved.
By dusk I was outside Cino’s, staring through the glass. My reflection in the window showed smoky eyes, red lips, a navy dress cut low enough to tempt without trying too hard. I breathed in, squared my shoulders, and stepped inside.
He was handsome. Too handsome. Suit pressed, smile polished—exactly as advertised. He stood when I approached, pulled out my chair, ordered wine like he knew what I liked. On paper, it was perfect.
“So,” he said, with the napkin-folding grace of a man who lived in corner booths—“Darren says your family’s bakery is the best thing on the street.”
I laughed, surprised. “He says that?”
“He’s passionate about carbs,” he grinned. “And you, apparently, are the carb queen.”
It was an easy line. I let it land like a compliment, not a bruise. We talked about the neighborhood, about how Cino’s overdid the truffle, about summer heat glueing traffic to the pavement. He asked good questions. I answered. We laughed at all the right times.
And yet.
Something in me stayed braced, like my body had stepped into a warm pool while my mind stood on the edge, fully clothed, holding a towel.
He was handsome. He was kind—in the rulebook way. His eyes stayed politely on mine, never dipping when I lifted my glass. It should have felt like a relief.
It didn’t.
Halfway through the arancini, my phone buzzed. How is he??? from Jessica.
He’s nice, I typed, then stared until the words dulled to nothing.
“Everything okay?” Ethan asked.
“Yeah,” I lied, tucking the phone away. “So—what brought you to this branch?”
He paused—just a fraction too long. “New opportunities,” he said, and smiled like a brochure.
We moved to pasta. He asked about recipes. I asked about travel. He joked about baking a “hockey puck with frosting.” I laughed. He laughed. On paper, still fine.
I excused myself to blot my lipstick and talk myself into wanting what was good for me.
The mirror offered the truth anyway. The flush on my cheeks wasn’t from wine. It was from a garage. A pair of hands. A low voice that didn’t waste words.
“Stop it,” I whispered to my reflection. “Choose the safe thing.”
When I came back, the booth was empty.
His voice floated from the hallway by the bar—low, hurried. I slowed without meaning to.
“Yeah,” he said into his phone. “Cino’s. She’s pretty—no, not model-pretty. But it’s fine.” A short laugh. “Darren’s right. I’ll send him the photo. Relax, I’m here, aren’t I? Tell him I’m a team player.”
The words fell one by one like ice cubes down my spine.
Pretty. Not model-pretty. Send him the photo. Team player.
For a second I tried to believe I’d misheard. I wanted to. I wanted it to be a different call, a different girl, a different night.
It wasn’t.
He slid back into the booth, smile polished, tie straight. “Everything okay?” he asked, like he hadn’t just turned me into a favor on a spreadsheet.
“Perfect,” I said. The word tasted metallic.
We finished because I didn’t know how to leave without crying, and I refused to give him that. When he offered dessert, I said I was full. When he offered to walk me home, I lied that my parents were waiting. When he reached for a hug, I pivoted to a handshake. His palm was still cool. Mine was a storm.
Outside, summer pressed damp against my skin. I walked fast. Faster. Past the deli, the florist, the late-night pharmacy. Past my reflection in a darkened shop window—a woman in a blue dress trying to keep her face from falling apart.
By the time the bakery came into view, I had nothing left to hold.
The alley behind the shop was quiet, the back door lit by the single bulb that always made the concrete look softer than it was. I fumbled for my keys with shaking hands, already bargaining with myself—just sugar, just silence, just enough to quiet the screaming.
Two steps from the door, a shadow peeled off the brick.
“Don’t go in there, Cupcake.”
- Writer
