Leaning down once I open the fridge, I peer into it, surveying my options. Everything I just bought and we brought home is crammed inside, from the vegetables to the fruit to the milk and eggs and the few snacks I had to have—like the Reese’s Pieces I like to keep cold and the bite-sized pizza bagels.
My eyes roam the contents, settling on one thing after the next, but nothing looks or sounds good.
Then.
I spot it.
Nestled in the back corner, how did I miss it when I was rooting around in here before?
A cake.
Move the big bowl of grapes to the left. Shift the pickles to the left. Remove the almond milk.
Pull out the cake.
“Well, hello there,” I croon to it as I unceremoniously plunk it on the table, yank open the utensil drawer, and grab a fork. I sit back down before deciding where to extract the first bite.
Round and white with fluffy frosting encircling the top. Hot pink roses with intricate green leaves ornament on top that probably took her hours to perfect, get jammed into my watering mouth.
“Damn, this is good,” I say around a big, moist chunk. “Shit.”
I eat more, devouring every morsel, moaning and rolling my eyes toward the ceiling, wishing I’d gotten myself a glass of milk before I started eating.
I’m about to rise to do just that when Posey enters the kitchen. She takes one look at me and begins shouting.
“Duke!” She looks pissed. “What are you doing?! You’re eating my cake!”
“Yourcake?” I’m nonplussed, continuing to eat.
“Yes,mycake! We didn’t buy it at the store. Whose cake did you think it was?” She’s fuming, madder than a wet hen.
“What’s your point?” I chew. The cake is so moist I have half a mind to moan out loud. “What was it doin’ in the fridge, then? I thought you were gonna have a welcome party for me and thought, why wait?”
“Awelcomeparty?” She sounds so mad I actually put down my fork while she yells at me. “What would make you think I was having a party for you? No one is supposed to know you’re here!”
The cake. The cake is what made me think she was having a party for me, but I don’t say that out loud; I may not be the smartest man on earth, but I get the feeling that mentioning it would only make this worse.
I load my fork with more of the moist confection.
“Well, Iassumedthis was for me.”
“You assumed it was for you,” Posey repeats in a deadly way that has my fork paused halfway to my mouth, terrified to bite down on my fork.
Angrier still, she swoops in and steals the cake right out from under me, snatching the entire thing up by the plate and pulling it to her side of the table where she stands. She lifts it possessively, eyes narrowed dangerously in my direction as she mentally catalogs my crimes against humanity.
She looks the cake over.
Turns it around and around, assessing it from all angles.
“You ruined it!” She sounds dismayed. “I can’t fix this. You ate a giant hole in the side!” She’s beyond irritated. “This took me hours to decorate—for my friend Anna’s birthday.” She glares. “We were going to celebrate to-mor-row!”
“You can’t fix it? Jam some frosting in the hole. It’ll be fine.”
There.
Problem solved.
“Jam some frosting in the hole.” She places the cake back on the table.