Fiona was one of the few people who knew about my health anxiety. About my worrying about anything and everything. She didn’t judge me for it. Didn’t tell me I was crazy—which I often thought I was—didn’t try to reassure me that if I just ‘calmed down,’ everything would be fine. She took me in stride, stayed composed when I couldn’t, and didn’t act like I was a massive hypochondriac, which I was, to put it lightly.
She didn’t understand completely, of course, because her brain didn’t torture her daily. At least not like mine had since before I could remember. My life has consistently been punctuated by worry. Bookended by anxiety and panic.
“Nothing,” I replied weakly. I was embarrassed, hyper-embarrassed about this little idiosyncrasy. I did not want to be like this.
I did not thrive on ill health. I didn’t run to the doctor or the emergency room, didn’t lie in bed day after day with my imagined maladies. No, I continued to function, just quietly spiraling until I didn’t die from a pulmonary embolism. That was the only way to lessen the anxiety… continue living until the next wave of panic, the next life-threatening illness.
I did not want the attention, though my mother had thought that’s where this little quirk originated. I was the last person in the entire world who would actively want attention.
Not like Fiona. Even though she didn’t want it or strive for it, she attracted it in a natural way and flourished off it. Bloomed like a flower in situations where people were attracted to her like honeybees.
Whereas I shriveled up, tried to make myself look as small as possible.
I sighed, looking down at the cupcakes I had been frosting. They were chocolate peanut butter with a fudgy frosting. I called them the PMS special since they were the perfect degree of chocolatey and sugary and comforting when you were craving them. I was sure indulging those cravings by consuming copious amounts of sugar, butter and chocolate wasn’t the best way to serve your hormones. You should probably eat nuts, fruits, smoothies… whatever.
As much as I believed a healthy lifestyle was a cure for a lot of ills, and that processed foods full of sugar, chemicals and preservatives were the reason for a lot of our health problems, I also believed that a little chocolate wouldn’t kill you.
Or even a lot of it.
Plus, I imported all of my ingredients from France. It was really costly and not at all fiscally responsible, according to my accountant, but you couldn’t deny that the ingredients were more wholesome, without the additives that were commonplace here in the US and illegal in Europe. You could taste the difference.
My business was all about taste. And it was worth it since people literally traveled across the country to come and get these cupcakes. People paid exorbitant shipping fees to have them made, shipped in climate-controlled packaging and trucks so they arrived fresh the next day.
“Yeah, I’m done here,” I said, looking from the cupcakes to Fiona.
Her eyes flared as she looked down. “Okay, you better not be shipping those out anywhere or putting them on sale before I have at least two.”
I grinned, leaning over to grab the plate I’d set aside for her. “Way ahead of you.” I winked, wiping my hands on my apron before brushing my cheek with the back of my hand out of habit.
Though I’d been baking for years—my whole life pretty much—I still had not perfected the art of looking like Nigella Lawson after I was done, all flawless and goddess-like. No, my auburn hair was usually escaping from the tight bun at the top of my head, chocolate was staining my fingertips, and flour ended up… pretty much everywhere.
When I first opened the bakery five years ago, I’d tried really hard to not only be the baker but also the face of the place, painstakingly crafting my appearance after spending hours in the kitchen. I’d battle with my wild burgundy locks, trying to wrestle them into a slick bun. I’d attempt to put on makeup, slathering it over my freckles, wear white dresses that molded over my considerable curves… the whole thing.
But that quickly went to shit.
You could not wear white and be a baker. Or maybe other bakers could. You couldn’t be me and wear white.
I wasn’t exactly the kind of person who would talk myself up, but even I couldn’t escape the wild success of my business and my food, so I knew that I was a good baker. Maybe even a great one. But I was not orderly, put together nor organized like a lot of my contemporaries at pastry school had been. In every other aspect of my life, I was meticulous, careful, purposeful. In the kitchen, I was not. Sure, I adhered to correct measurements—most of the time, at least—but other than that, I was like a hurricane.