Baking was safe and always there. It expected nothing from her. You put the oven on, sourced the best raw ingredients, followed the recipe, it ended the same way every time. Routine, with an expected outcome. Like a tick list. You made a list of goals, and then worked towards them. Worked till the day was completed, and you could tick that box, cross the item off that list. It sounded a little hollow even in her own head that morning. All she wanted to do was go into the café, keep busy.
She’d been up for hours, not even trying to sleep after the first hour of tossing and turning on the sofa. She felt sick to her stomach at the thought of facing Luke and his questions. Hans must have known it would be like this. Adding the final egg to the mixture, she mixed it together by hand, the bowl balanced on one hip. She didn’t even need any more cupcakes, but she couldn’t stop her hands from making more. It helped to distract her from the massive urge to flee. She added peppermint extract and folded it into the mixture, gnawing on the insides of her lip as she tried to calm herself down.
Her mother had taught her how to bake, years ago. Before the obsession with success had taken hold of Rebecca – and her mother. Rebecca could still remember dragging her little stool to the countertop to help her, her little cherry-patterned pinafore apron matching her mother’s. This was her favourite recipe, peppermint cupcakes with mojito frosting. They’d designed it together, adding the mojito when she got older and baking was one thing they still enjoyed together; she made them whenever something bad happened. Now, she was making them because she knew something bad was coming, and she couldn’t do a thing to stop it. She stirred a little faster.
Last night. Her old friend anxiety whispered in her ear softly, provoking a reaction like being slapped in the face with a breeze block. What am I going to say to him when he wakes up? Will he bring it up? Hans had a lot to answer for, the brave little bastard. What was he thinking, saddling her with a stranger, and a geeky, all-knowing, all-seeing man child at that? Luke was going to keep digging, she could see the frustration in his cute drunken expression last night as he struggled to place her face. She worked that bit faster at the mixture, to shake the anxiety off and try to focus on her task again.
‘Bec … Rebecca?’ A weak little voice limped into her awareness, and she jumped, ditching the bowl on the countertop and raising her wooden spoon in front of her, like a wizard wielding a wand. A gob of batter fell to the floor, making a loud ‘splat’ sound. Luke was in the doorway, or rather, was lying against it pathetically, his knuckles white as they gripped the corner of the door. ‘What are you doing down here?’ It came out as a little whine, and Rebecca found herself feeling a bit sorry for him. Before she remembered. He had to go. She ventured forward to look closer at her uninvited houseguest.
He looked rough. As in bear’s arse rough. His stubble was quite dark now, casting a deep shadow on his face. He had dark circles under his eyes, and his hair had that tousled look, as though someone had grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him hard. It reminded her of a toy she had as a kid, a little hairy gonk thing that said ‘yabber yabber’ when you shook it. Same annoying whine too.
‘I’m baking, I couldn’t sleep.’ She didn’t ask what he was doing up. His liver probably woke him up in protest. I just want you to go.
‘You bake a lot, don’t you? Did I wake you?’ Did you wake me? Are you kidding? She rolled her eyes and started to spoon the mixture into the cupcake cases, working methodically as she tried to stop her hands from shaking.
‘I think you know the answer to that,’ she started, trying to ignore the butterflies kickboxing in her stomach. ‘I don’t know what you think you know about me, but—’
‘I get it, you don’t want houseguests coming home late, it was a one-off. It’s way out of character for me, I can assure you of that. I apologise. It won’t happen again.’ He stumbled over and very gently lowered himself onto one of the stools, moving forward at a sloth like leisurely pace till his left cheek touched the tabletop. ‘Ohhh, that’s nice and cold. Mmmmm.’
Rebecca threw a tea towel over his head and put the trays of cupcakes into the oven, flicking the timer on.
‘Ow, that hurt,’ he moaned from under the towel, his voice muffled and dull.
‘Aww poor baby,’ she pouted before she could stop herself. I can’t bring myself to look at him, even with the tea towel covering his knowing face.
He lifted his head up, looking like a drooling shepherd in a pub nativity play nightmare.
‘Sorry for waking you. Hans and I kind of tied one on, you know?’ Putting the cupcakes in the oven, she set her chicken timer and waited, listening to the ticking in the silence. He squinted a little as he looked right at her.
‘I know, I had to put you to bed.’ Signalling the end of the conversation, she sprayed the surfaces down and started scrubbing. She concentrated on the monotonous motion to steady her. She always got like this, when someone noticed, spoke
