There are people who cope with stress by meditating. There are people who cope with stress by journaling.
And then there's me: a woman currently holding three helium balloons, a four-scoop ice cream cone, and enough cake coupons to start a black-market bakery.
How did I acquire this much sugar-based weaponry, you ask? Simple.
The balloon man felt sorry for me after I asked if he accepted ramen packets as currency. In my defence, I had way too many and the balloon man looked so thin I thought he could've used some. But instead he gave me two balloons and then slipped me a third when I sneezed directly into my elbow instead of into his stall. "You're a good citizen," he said.The ice cream was because the girl at the counter dropped an entire cone on the floor, panicked, and gave me two cones to hush me up. I stacked them into one Tower of Pisa of dairy.The cake coupons were from a bakery promotion I absolutely should not have qualified for, but when the cashier said, "Are you here with your child?" I pointed at my balloon and said, "Yes." Boom. Free coupons.
So now I'm wandering down cracked sidewalks with sticky fingers, balloons bumping against my head, and two remaining scoops of ice cream slowly melting down my wrist like I'm in a toddler version of a bad mafia movie.
Stress eating? Oh, honey. This was a stress feast. Cynthia's wedding loomed over me like a guillotine, and no amount of sugar was going to sharpen my decision-making. But at least my funeral would taste good.
That's how I ended up walking into Peterson's Patisserie – a cake shop that smelled like cinnamon and financial stability – with balloon strings tangled around my neck, ice cream dripping onto my jeans, and the aura of a woman who had clearly lost the war against dignity.
And that's also how I ended up colliding – directly, disastrously – into a man in a navy suit that screamed my cufflinks cost more than your rent.
Splat. Two scoops of mint chocolate chip, straight across his pristine lapel.
I froze, mortified. My brain immediately screamed: Prison. You are going to prison. He is going to sue you for dry cleaning, and the judge will sentence you to death by lint roller.
So I did what any rational, self-respecting woman would do.
I blamed him.
"Watch where you're standing sir!" I snapped, holding my melting cone close to my heart.
His brows shot up. He was tall, handsome, rich-looking, and definitely someone who had never bought jeans on clearance. But instead of yelling or threatening legal action, he blinked once.
"Uh…" he said.
"Sir," I said, pointing accusingly at him even though I'd clearly been the one holding dessert as weaponry. "Why would you just stand there? Do you such violence in your life?"
Instead of suing me on the spot, the man… smiled.
"It was my fault. I blocked the door. I…uh," he glanced at my fallen dessert, "I guess I owe you an ice cream for it?"
I blinked. "Wait. You're not mad at me?"
"Mad?" He tilted his head. "At losing a fight with dessert? No. I'm impressed."
And then, because apparently I'd manifested a lunatic, he pulled a giraffe balloon out from behind his back and held it out like a knight offering a shawl.
I stared. "You're bribing me with balloon animals?"
"Yes. You can add it to the three you're carrying already. And… also cake." He nodded toward the counter. "We're in a bakery. Let me buy you a cake."
I narrowed my eyes. "Are you hitting on me, or are you some kind of dessert philanthropist?"
"The latter," he said, dead serious.
Which is how I found myself at a corner table with him, two slices of mousse cake in front of me, feeling rather lucky. He pushed one across. "This is for the fallen scoops. May they rest in peace."
I leaned forward, suspicious. "Are you sure you're not trying to poison me? Because this is the exact plot of like twelve true-crime podcasts."
He gasped dramatically. "Would a murderer choose mousse? Too delicate. A real killer would pick carrot cake. Dense. Reliable. Lethal with raisins."
I actually snorted. Loud. "Oh my God. You're insane."
He grinned, boyish and bright. "Correct. But I'm also generous. Eat."
So I did. I shoveled cake into my mouth with little grace, then groaned in bliss. "This is so good. I might cry."
He leaned his chin on his hand, watching kindly. "Are you… moaning?"
"Food is my love language," I mumbled through ganache.
"Noted. I'll put that in your wedding vows someday."
I froze mid-bite. "Excuse me?"
"Not with me!" He waved his fork. "I meant generally. You clearly need someone to fund your pastry habit."
I squinted at him. "You're weird."
"Takes one to know one. Now eat the second slice."
I ate it. No hesitation.
After polishing it off, guilt nudged me. "Okay, listen. I destroyed your suit too, but I can't pay you back with money. But I'm a freelance editor. I'll edit stuff for you. Free. Grammar ninja at your service!"
He gave me a look – soft, sympathetic, like he'd just realized I was a stray cat who could type. "That's… very kind."
"Don't pity me." I jabbed my fork at him. "I'm feral, not fragile."
He chuckled. Then, in the most solemn voice I'd ever heard, he said: "Fine. Then promise me this one thing – you'll pray for my wedding."
I blinked. "What, like light a Yankee Candle? Chant over a Costco cheesecake?"
"Whatever works," he said. "But you have to believe in the prayer you say. My fiancée is terrifying and I would like you to pray for us."
I burst out laughing. "I don't even know you, Balloon Man. And now I'm spiritually responsible for your wedding?"
"Yes," he said gravely, handing me the giraffe balloon. "Carry this holy relic with you. It will amplify your prayers."
I took it because what else do you do when a rich stranger gives you a balloon in a patisserie, asking you to pray?
"You're absolutely unhinged," I smiled.
"Are you?"
"Tragically."
We parted ways after that, him striding off to the corner of the shop with chocolate smudges on his thousand-dollar suit, me waddling out with frosting on my shirt and a lot of balloons in my hand.
And only later, walking home, did it hit me:
Oh my God.
He thinks I'm homeless. Homeless, crazy, and maybe… starving too.
Maybe he also thinks I'm hired by God as a part-time prayer intern.
I laughed until tears rolled down my cheeks. Then, because he'd asked, I whispered to the giraffe balloon, "Fine. I'll wish your wedding goes fantastically well. But only because the cake was amazing."
And maybe, for the first time in weeks, I wanted my prayer to be heard.