The problem with being a serious man is that occasionally, you're forced into unserious situations. And then you don't know what the appropriate thing to do is.
It's definitely not crouching behind a marble pillar decorated with plastic peonies in Peterson's Patisserie, eavesdropping on your best friend having cake with a woman who once accidentally castrated me with her stiletto.
This is not my finest moment.
But there she was.
Alaska.
I'd seen her the moment she walked in – hair a chaotic nest, balloons floating above her like she'd just mugged a clown, an ice cream cone drooping in surrender. My body reacted before my brain did: hide. I ducked behind the pillar like a coward while she collided with Mark and christened his suit with melting mint-chip.
From my vantage point, I could see everything.
Her laugh – still sharp, unrestrained, too big for the room.
Her mouth – still quick to smirk, wide and shameless.
Her voice – still carrying the same absurdity it had ten years ago when she accused me of spilling her latte. Was this a habit of hers?
I hadn't forgotten any of it.
I'd tried to.
God knows I'd tried.
And yet, ten years later, one glimpse of her and it all came back: the humiliation, the chaos, and that dangerous little spark of attraction that made me feel… undignified.
My phone buzzed. It was Mark.
Mark: Bro where ARE you
Mark: I'm with a homeless person
Mark: Their blessings bring good fortune for weddings, right??
I pinched the bridge of my nose. Dear God.
Me: On an important call. Will be there soon.
Important call = hiding from a woman with frosting on her chin.
From behind the pillar, I watched her demolish two slices of cake while Mark beamed like he'd adopted a stray cat. He even gave her his giraffe balloon. She left shortly after, waving it in the air like a battle flag, her laughter trailing behind her as if she owned the street.
And me? I exhaled, relieved. Like I'd just dodged a bullet.
Or maybe a grenade.
When I finally emerged, Mark was waiting by the counter, licking frosting off his thumb and grinning. His suit bore a mint-green stain, but he looked inappropriately pleased about it.
"Bro," he said, slapping my shoulder, "you missed it. I just had cake with the coolest homeless chick ever."
"She wasn't—" I cut myself off. "What?"
"Yeah! She had balloons and this wild raccoon energy. She told me she'd edit stuff for free if I ever needed it." He chuckled. "I think she meant like… menus? Or blog posts? Anyway, I told her to pray for the wedding. We're blessed, man. Absolutely blessed!"
I stared at him, unsmiling. "Your theology is unhinged."
Mark ignored me, waving toward the display case. "Anyway, we should buy the mousse cakes. Two, maybe three. That woman devoured hers like she was hungry for days. Maybe she was.'"
I pinched the bridge of my nose again. "You're serious."
"As a heart attack." He leaned in, conspiratorial. "Richard, you don't understand. Her prayers are going to work. I could feel it. The aura. The vibe."
"An aura of frosting and melted ice cream," I muttered.
Mark grinned. "Jealous?"
"No."
Mark raised a brow, chuckling. He was then distracted by the samples the cashier offered, his golden-retriever brain lighting up at the prospect of delicious food.
I paid for the cakes – because I like to – and we walked out into the street.
As the bell above the patisserie door jingled shut, I shoved my hands deep into my pockets, jaw tight.
Bullet dodged.
Absolutely dodged.
So why did it feel like I'd just stepped back onto a battlefield I swore I'd never revisit?