“… a name?” Brody asked, but I’d missed most of the question.
“Huh?”
“We should give him a name.” He stepped back and eyed the construction critically, smoothing part of the head, and then frowned. “Jeremy,” he announced.
“Jeremy?”
“He looks like he could be a Jeremy, don’t you think?”
I studied our repaired creation carefully. “He looks like a snowman.”
Brody snorted a laugh. “I know, but a name is vital otherwise they can’t be magic.”
This seemed important to Brody, and I must admit I was smiling at his unbridled enthusiasm for naming this rescued collection of snow and his excitement at the word magic. The smile I gave him was different to normal. I hadn’t considered why I was smiling. It wasn’t because I was laughing at him, but right inside me, there was a sudden burst of warmth as if the joy was coming from deep inside. As if it meant something.
“Jeremy is good.”
I took a photo for my Insta. Hash tagged it with Jeremy, and the various other key tags I needed to get in for my sponsors. When it came to explaining the content, I knew I should check with Brody before plastering his name all over my social media. There again, he was in this competition for exposure, so I guess it didn’t hurt. “Rescued a snowman with Brody from the show, called our frosty friend, Jeremy,” I said out loud as I typed. “Is that okay?”
He appeared to seriously consider my question and then nodded. “Yeah, it’s important to document Jeremy.”
We said our goodbyes when we reached the Fairmont, went our separate ways with a casual ‘see you at the games’ from him, but just as he reached the stairs, he turned back to look at me.
“I had fun,” he said.
“Me too.”
And then he was gone.
I checked in on the post an hour later, the usual amount of comments—too many to answer—and already four thousand likes, along with so many re-posts that I trended. Briefly, but I’d done it, and when a note popped up with a well done from Erin, I was proud of myself.
Only pride didn’t feel quite as good as the happiness I felt rebuilding Jeremy and laughing with Brody.
Chapter Eight
Cupcakes are muffins that believed in miracles
Brody
I couldn’t get last night out of my head.
When we were in front of the snowman and we did that scarf thing, it was like a switch flicked in my head. All I needed to do was lean in a little and I could have kissed him. That was when I knew what I had to do. After I showered, I pulled out the divorce papers, ignored all the legalese, and signed right under Marc’s name.
So simple. Just my name in cursive with the extra curly Y, and it was done.
I felt nothing because I’d already worked through every emotion. People had fought for the right for me to marry, but I’d fucked it up, he’d fucked it up, and the sooner I owned my own part in it and stopped looking for reasons to make things right, then the quicker I could get through this.
I handed the envelope to the front desk, and they assured me it would be collected, and when I walked away from reception, I was lighter for it. Justin was already done with his breakfast, but we exchanged smiles as he left. I didn’t stay much longer because today was the first day of the competition, and we needed to get a hustle on to get over to the venue.
It seemed right to be wearing my favorite shirt that Lacey’d bought for me because she said I looked good in fall colors. It was soft and dark red. I zoned out when she’d begun talking about eye color and skin palettes but checking myself in the mirror, she was right. It did look good on me, even if it hugged my belly a little too much. Still, the color and remembering my sister’s words gave me that extra buzz of confidence.
I’ve signed the papers. I’m not married now. I like Justin. I can do this. I’m going to ask him to get a coffee and just talk to someone who isn’t an asshole.
He walked with me to the annex, and it was now or never to ask.
“This is all Adam’s fault because I wouldn’t do this normally, but we only have two weeks and… ” I sipped on the to-go coffee.
“Adam?”
“My twin, he said I should ask, and I was thinking whether you would like to get a coffee with me sometime?” I asked in a quick run-on sentence.
He glanced down at my mug and back up at me. “You mean like we’re doing now?”
My mouth fell open as the realization hit me that I’d just talked about doing something that we were already doing. I couldn’t help rolling my eyes.
“Well shit, that was smooth. No, I meant, go out for a coffee.”
“Out.”
“Out, as in date out.”
He could have messed with me then, but he didn’t. “I’d love that.”
“Maybe on our day off after round two?”
“You’re sure I’m going to make it out of the first two rounds?” He had to be joking. He couldn’t still be worried that he’d crash and burn?
“Absolutely. I’m sure you’ll be in the final.”
“That makes one of us with complete conviction.” Was he being self-deprecating? Or completely honest?
“So, our day off, we could go into Banff, get a coffee?”
“It’s a date,” he said, and his eyes widened. “Or not,” he added.
“Guys, get a hustle on.” Ivan bumped into me, and I nearly dropped my coffee, which would have been a shit start to the day. I wanted to discuss the concept of a date. Then my thoughts went straight to coffee-flavored kisses. With Justin.
It was going to be impossible baking with a hard-on, but I was stuck with my jeans containing it until we were shown into the room where the filming would be, and we were handed aprons. Everything I recalled about the show was the same. They’d reconstructed the interior from the L.A. sound stage here, fitting it in around the quirky room and making it look sleek and modern. Six workstations sat in two rows of three, hot studio lights sat up in the rafters of this vast room, and there were people everywhere. It was everything I recalled. On TV, it would seem as if it was just the six contestants, the two judges, and the host, but what people didn’t see was the network of cables, the primping, and makeup, and the ones who made us stand just so. Right now, the six of us were huddled around Rita, the organizer and floor manager, who worked through a checklist.
“… and we need at least two shots per contestant of you staring into your ovens commiserating over what is happening inside. Too hot, not cooking, too brown, so on. At least one of you messing up equipment, I’m open to volunteers, also with added rueful smiles.”
“I’ll do it,” Shauna said. “ Can I make the mixer go wrong?”
Rita glanced up from her list and focused on Shauna, who again looked as if the world had dumped all of its sad right on her shoulders. “Is that okay?”
Clare huffed. “Making it seem like we’re burning our cakes isn’t going to do our reputations that much good.” She was right, but unlike me, she was clinging to the belief that this show was all about showcasing our abilities. Yes, they wanted us to bake the awesome, but they also wanted the sound bites, the tears, the worry, the fun stuff. After all, it wouldn’t be much of a show without all of that, and a winning charity payout was a lifeline for the hospice I was attempting to win for. Hell, I’d do handstands dressed as a snowman named Jeremy if I needed to.