Page 84 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves
After the corn dogs have been devoured without turning into murder weapons, we hover by the contest tent like we’re planning a heist. Four grown adults, all vibrating at different frequencies of unhinged. It’s honestly poetic.
I try not to pace. Really, I do. But my body is running on caffeine, cortisol, and vengeance frosting. I’m practically sparking.
Carson stands beside me, sunglasses on, arms crossed, radiating the kind of judgment that could curdle milk. The reflection off his lenses shows the judges moving through the entries. His lips haven’t moved in ten minutes. He may be in a meditative state. Or plotting a kidnapping.
Edgar is murmuring under his breath. “So much over-mixing I can hear it. That crumb structure will be devastating. Do you see that piping? She used a closed star tip. Coward.”
I’m 80% sure he’s not even looking at Cookie’s table. He’s just tuned in to the frequency of pastry sins.
Blake’s hand is in mine. His palm is warm and a little sweaty, like he’s nervous for me. Every time I start to vibrate, he squeezes gently. Like I’m some sort of chaotic lemon bomb and he’s just trying to keep the detonation delayed until the blue ribbon lands.
Cookie, of course, is near the front of the tent, wearing a smug expression I want to sandblast off her face.
She’s loudly discussing her “decades of ribbon wins” with anyone within a five-foot blast radius. “Some of us still value tradition,” she says with the cheer of someone spiking their lemonade with arsenic. “Not all these modern nonsense trends. Salted caramel and basil like we’re on an episode of Chopped.”
I don’t flinch, but Edgar’s jaw ticks.
Then the judging begins. The panel approaches Cookie’s cupcakes first. Three elderly judges. One young intern-lookingguy with a clipboard. One of them has a palate so refined he refused to try the corndogs because the oil “smelled anxious.”
They taste Cookie’s lemon cupcakes.
One of them tears up. Another clutches their chest.
My heart jumps in panic.
Then the clipboard guy gasps and whispers, “Too much extract.”
Cookie narrows her eyes, watching the subtle horror ripple through the table. “They must be allergic,” she says icily. “To excellence.”
I nearly laugh. Nearly. Instead, I lean in slightly toward Edgar and say, “Do you think they’d disqualify me for accidentally shivving her with a corn dog stick?”
“Depends where you stab her,” he replies.
God, I love him.
The judges step up to the mic. There’s a moment of fanfare, fair-level, which means a kazoo, some clapping, and the sound of livestock screaming in the distance.
My spine straightens. My pupils dilate. The cupcake gods are watching.
“And this year’s winner of the Blue Ribbon for Superior Baked Goods…”
They pause. My entire bloodstream is just lemon zest and uncut panic.
“…goes to Jennifer Lane, for her Lethal Lemon Cupcakes!”
The tent explodes into applause. Blake whoops like he just saw me punch a man on live TV. Edgar claps once, but it’s the kind of deliberate, echoing chef’s kiss of a clap that feels like a mic drop. Carson smirks so hard his cheek twitches and calmly raises his phone to snap a photo.
I blink. Once. Twice.
“What is my life?” Cookie wails. She’s in full Greek tragedy mode now, staggering slightly, clutching her chest like she’s justwatched her third husband run off with her sourdough starter. “I lose to a crazy lemon bar lunatic? I own the bakery. I am the pastry queen.”
Somewhere in the crowd, a small child’s voice pipes up. “Not anymore.”
The silence is immediate. Devastating. Holy.
I don’t see them, but I will find that child. I will buy them a pony. And a kingdom.
Cookie lets out one last sob, like she’s being forced to eat margarine with a spoon, then storms off into the fairgrounds muttering about sabotage and slut energy.
