On Sunday morning, I’m having cheesecake and coffee for breakfast when I get a text.
Yes, I’m eating cake for breakfast. Taylor insisted I take the rest of the Japanese cheesecake home because I paid for it, and I felt like I ought to protest, but I didn’t. And the way I see it, the cheesecake is fresher now than it would be this evening, right?
Besides, many people eat sweet things for breakfast—just look at the cereal aisle in the grocery store—and this cheesecake isn’t overly sweet. In fact, it’s not as sweet as the waffles that I had for brunch with my friends last month.
Still, despite these rational arguments, eating dessert at nine thirty in the morning seems a little wrong.
Whatever. It’s not like my mother is here to judge me.
“And don’t you start.” I glare at Lucifer, who looks unimpressed with me.
After savoring a bite of cheesecake and washing it down with coffee, I check my phone. Taylor has sent me an image of a heart-shaped chocolate cake topped with strawberries and whipped cream. I chuckle.
Before I can reply, I receive another picture of a heart-shaped chocolate cake, this one with “love” written in cursive on the top. It makes me cringe, but it’s probably delicious.
Although I’ve never liked heart-shaped things, ever since last year’s Valentine’s fiasco, I’ve developed a stronger aversion to traditional Western symbols of romance, even if the bouquet is nice. It probably helps that Taylor didn’t get me any pink or red flowers. No roses, either.
How thoughtful of him.
I’m not even being sarcastic.
He sends me yet another picture of a heart-shaped cake, this one decorated in pink, red, and white buttercream roses. It feels like an attack on my eyeballs.
Glad you know how to do a Google image search, I text.
I’m a man of many skills, he replies.
Why is that putting dirty thoughts in my head?
Luckily, those thoughts come to a screeching halt when I get a call from my mother.
“Hi, Helen!” she says with too much enthusiasm.
My mother doesn’t usually call on Sunday mornings, but as soon as I hear her voice, I know why she’s calling.
She talked to Lisa.
“Hi,” I say, trying not to sound too world-weary.
“Lisa says she saw you and your boyfriend having dinner last night. She tells me you looked very cozy.”
“It was a cramped restaurant with small tables,” I instinctively protest.
“What did you say?”
I suppose it’s a good thing she didn’t hear me do a poor job of selling the relationship. I need to get better at this.
“Uh, yeah,” I say. “I’m sure we did look cozy.” Not as cozy as we looked at the cheesecake shop, but still.
“But it’s not fair.”
Yep, it’s not fair that I have to fake a relationship so people don’t feel sorry for me. And that my fake date was better than the vast majority of real dates, even if I nearly agreed to eat a heart-shaped cake.
Obviously, she’s not talking about those things, though.
“What’s unfair?” I ask mildly.
“She got to meet him before I did!”
