After I get home from Vin and Alec’s, I bake what might be the most important batch of cookies in my entire life. I don’t drop or overmix anything. My hands are steady and confident as I throw balls of dough onto my best cookie sheets. I don’t sneak any bites. While they transform in the oven, I sit at the kitchen island with my hands wrapped around an oversized mug covered in rainbow narwhals — for extra emotional support — until about twelve seconds before my timer goes off, when my inner sense that my timer is about to go off has me leaping to my feet.

I open the oven door, releasing a wave of heat and the most brazen vanilla scent.

With my oven mitt, I pull them onto the counter. The chocolate glistens, because it’s melted and hasn’t reset, but I can’t wait for that moment; I grab the biggest one studded with a completely unreasonable number of chips and I take a bite and burn my mouth and I don’t even care because I’m already crying, and they’re the best, saltiest, most important tears. They mingle with my bites and bring out every flavor: mourning for what I thought my future was going to be before this breakup; wonder at meeting someone like Harley; anger at making it this far without knowing myself a little better; and love, so much love, whether or not it lasts.

I lick my fingers, then move the rest of the cookies onto my cooling rack, where they sit in imperfect rows, waiting to be devoured.

Then I sit at the kitchen counter, and I eat them one by one.

And I feel everything.

At some point, Dad comes in and tries to steal one, but I swat him away with an oven mitt.

“These are mine,” I say through an unexpected burst of laughter. “Find your own.”

He backs away with his hands up, and I laugh harder, because I realize my dad just found me, post-breakup, demolishing an entire sheet of cookies, literally eating my feelings.

I collapse over the kitchen island, laughing so hard that I’m crying again. There’s joy in these cookies, and it overpowers the uncertainty of Vin and Alec and the Proud Muffin, and two more couples out there, still heartbroken, and me and Harley hitting what felt like a dead end.

I didn’t know there would be so much joy.

Harley is a big part of that feeling, too, and soon I’m sifting through all the tiny moments that felt so big. Harley lingering in the alley to talk to me for five extra minutes. Harley bouncing into action with cake boxes. Harley’s curls in my hands, finally. I was waiting for those moments to add up to a love story instead of letting myself feel the simple fact that we were already in one.

At some point my stomach reaches its limit and I have to set aside the rest of the cookies — and then I bake a few more batches for good measure. I box them up, knowing that these will help other people get in touch with their deepest feelings.

I’m still scared that I messed everything up the other night, and I don’t know how to fix that. But I’m going to see Harley again, soon, and one of the biggest feelings that just hit me in waves, cookie after cookie, was hope.

When I get to my first break the next morning, I haven’t actually seen Harley yet. I check on the rest of my Big Feelings Cookies, which I double-wrapped to make sure nobody catches a whiff of them and decides to help themself. When I get off break, I check the back door. Harley’s bike is nowhere to be seen. Harley is officially late.

Marisol calls to me without even turning away from her three-tiered tiramisu cake. “Harley’s not coming. They called in sick.”

“What?” Harley hasn’t been sick once the entire time we’ve worked together.

Did they call in because they’re upset with me? Or is this about the bakery? Maybe they can’t deal with being here if this place really is slipping away. Is Harley ghosting me, or the Proud Muffin? Or both? How am I supposed to tell Harley all the feelings I just sorted out?

What if that’s exactly what they’re trying to avoid?

I put my hand to my upper stomach and press down.

Marisol shoots me a harsh look.

“Don’t tell me you’re sick, too.”

“No,” I say. “I’m good.” It’s the biggest lie I’ve told in a while, but at least I know I’m lying, right?

It might be progress, but it doesn’t exactly feel like a win.

Vin and Alec come around the kitchen a few minutes later, with their arms wrapped around each other. They look happy — blissful, even. And for a moment, all of my worries about Harley dissolve.

“All staff meeting,” Vin says. “Four p.m. Bring your appetites.”

Marisol sighs like she’s the captain of a ship that was about to go down and we’ve finally stopped taking on water. We go to the walk-in and toast with those little fizzy Italian lemon drinks she loves. Then we sit down on crates and enjoy the frosty cold air and the silence in the kitchen.

When I open the door a tiny sliver, I see Vin and Alec kissing.

That feels like a win.

I’m not going to stop there. I still have two more couples to get back to official.

Right before I clock out at 2 p.m., I single-handedly drag the chalkboard out to the sidewalk and scribble: Iced Green Tea, half price all afternoon! It doesn’t look remotely as nice as when Gemma does it, but desperate times call for really bad handwriting.

I sit down at one of the little tables in the garden, with a plate covered in a tempting tumble of cookies and a paper right next to it with another scribbled invitation. Syd’s Home Bake, Help Yourself!

I’m setting the iced green tea trap again — but this time is different. I couldn’t figure out what Kit and Aadi needed to get back together. Now, my cookies are going to help them figure it out on their own.

But first, a dozen people coming in or out of the bakery take full advantage of the many, many cookies that I made last night. And then they stand around telling me how they feel. Their eyes get a faraway glaze as they tell me everything they’ve been holding back. One person says they’re working up the bravery to break up with someone who clearly doesn’t love them anymore, as evidenced by the fact that all they do is watch Netflix in separate rooms. Another waxes poetic about how much they love their new apartment, the first space that’s ever really felt like was theirs. Another pours out the fear that they’ll follow the life plans everyone else is laying out for them instead of pursuing their real passion — needle-felting anime characters. One person gives a soliloquy about how awkward online dating makes them feel and how lonely they’ve been lately. But then they start happy-crying about how great their friends are, and I wonder how often our big feelings contradict each other.

After forty-five minutes, I’m getting worried I’ll end up with a lot of emotional new friends, but no Kit and Aadi.

Then, as a fifty-ish woman tells me about her deep nostalgia for the lesbian karaoke bar where she used to live and how all she thinks about is opening her own — and I encourage her, of course — Kit and Aadi drop their bikes in the rack and pass by, their sneakers pounding up the porch stairs. They head straight into the bakery, undeterred by my sweet distraction. I push a few more cookies on the future lesbian karaoke bar owner and say goodbye. When Kit and Aadi come out with enormous cups clutched to their chests, straws fused to their lips, I hold out the cookie platter and point to the sign.

They both light up. Then they scarf three to four cookies in quick succession. I wait with an impatient ticking in my heart. Will they make up right in front of me? Will they sign heartfelt love poetry to each other? Will they kiss with the teeth-bumping urgency of high school freshmen? Will they get on their bikes and ride off together into the sunset — okay, the blazing hot afternoon?

Kit smudges melted chocolate from their fingers onto their lemon-yellow denim shorts. Aadi shrugs happily.

Nothing seems to change.

Then Kit’s brow wrinkles. They pull a cell phone out of their pocket and type into the texts, then turn the phone around to show me what they’ve written. I’m thinking it will be some kind of secret, urgent missive about how Kit wants to win Aadi back.

What it says is These make me happy! Can I get the recipe? I want to make them for my mom.

Aadi also pulls out their phone, types rapidly, and then shows us both what’s in their heart: So good but now I’m feeling mega-thirsty! Need more igt to wash this down.

Aadi heads back into the bakery for seconds on the tea. Kit waits, and then they join back up, strapping on those helmets with the cat ears before they pick up their respective bikes from the rack.

“Huh,” I say, nibbling at the edge of a cookie.

I have this intense longing to see semi-sweet chocolate eyes so close to mine that I know no one is pulling back, an urge to stop waiting for the so-called right moment and let this one soften into a kiss and then set itself on fire.

Harley. My feelings are Harley.

So the cookies still work.

I guess I really don’t need to get Kit and Aadi back together — they’re not hiding some great big feeling from each other, or even from themselves. They already know they’re better off as friends. I stop myself before I blurt out, It’s ridiculously mature of you to be so in touch with your emotions! They wouldn’t hear me.

And besides, they’re not babies anyway.

I pack up the last few cookies, feeling unsure about how to find Martin Thomas and fix the last relationship on my list. I won’t give up until I’m sure everyone is okay. But maybe my brownies didn’t only wreak havoc. Maybe in some cases they put people exactly where they were supposed to be.

At exactly 4 p.m. that day, the community room is filled with a dozen proud muffins in their matching aprons, T-shirts, tank tops, and hats. We’ve shown up in force, with our pride on the outside.

Vin and Alec don’t stand on the stage today. They sit down with us, in a big circle composed of chairs and couch cushions and patches of floor. You can’t tell queer people where, or how, to sit. We’ll always break those rules.

Vin and Alec are facing down the entire staff — minus Harley.

I can feel my hands flying around nervously, like Mom’s do. I strangle them into stillness on my lap.

“We want to make a few things extremely clear,” Alec says.

“With no room for interpretation,” Vin adds, looking right at me.

I feel more than a little called out, but it’s fair. I did storm into his office. And then his house.

Alec looks from employee to employee. “This place means so much to us. You all mean so much. But Vin and I realized that if we don’t start fighting for each other instead of for the bakery, we’re going to lose what made the Proud Muffin exist in the first place.”

“We need time we can actually spend together. We’ve been running in opposite directions for too long. I’ve been so busy keeping those doors open that I haven’t done any real community organizing in years. And Alec . . .”

Alec needs to bake.

I think about what it would be like to hardly bake for years, and it causes me instant physical pain.

“I’ve been offered the chance to work in some wonderful kitchens,” Alec says, adjusting the stem of his glasses with undeniable excitement. “Places where they know exactly who I am and what I stand for, and they’re excited about that. I’m talking about taking this message of love and muffins all over the world.”

Okay, that sounds amazing. But does it really mean leaving the bakery behind? Why can’t Alec just go to those places and then come back home? To us?

Even though the day is just as hot as any in Austin, I’m shaking. I got Vin and Alec back together. That was supposed to fix things. Instead, I feel like I’m the one who signed away the deed for the place I love most.

“We’ve accepted an offer on the property,” Vin said, grumbling and final. “The papers have been signed.”

I expect an uproar, but there’s the exact opposite — a dull, expanding silence.

It reminds me a little too much of the horrible moment when Harley spun away from me. It doesn’t help that I’m back in the community room.

“The bakery will remain open for the next two weeks,” Alec says. “After that . . . we’ll write your references. We’ll help you find places to work. And when we’re back in Austin, we’ll invite you all over for backyard BBQ and bake for a crowd.”

“We’re not done with what we started here at the Proud Muffin,” Vin says. “And you haven’t seen the last of us. Not by a long shot.”

“Syd, I need to lock up,” Marisol says. “Let’s go.”

I’ve been sitting at the kitchen counter for hours now. Ever since the staff meeting got out.

I don’t know how many self-pity muffins I’ve eaten.

I texted Harley: Did you hear what happened at the Muffin?

And heard back, ten minutes later.

Yeah.

Harley’s been shy with me before, but never short on words. Is this just about the Proud Muffin, or is it about us too? Can those things even be separated? With most of the brownie relationships mended in their own ways and the magical bakes dispersed and the bakery closing, does Harley assume we’re just . . . done?

I grab a bag of the bakery’s most bracing black tea and pour water from the hot tap even though it’s a blazing day. I have a chill that I can’t seem to shake. When I turn around, Gemma is calmly taking down her photographs from the walls, Marisol is sitting cross-legged on top of the bakery counter with her head down near her knees. “Stop it,” I nearly shout.

“Stop what?” Marisol asks listlessly.

“Accepting that it’s over.”

It was one thing to walk away from W, to respect her decision to end things. But the Proud Muffin doesn’t want to close. Vin and Alec love this place. They love it so much that they’ve been fighting for it harder than they even fought for their own marriage. But they aren’t the only ones who care about the bakery.

What if it’s our turn to take up the fight?

“We shouldn’t be sitting here,” I say. “We should be doing an enormous fundraiser to save this place.”

“Syd, they already sold it,” Gemma says.

I slam my tea down, sloshing a little bit of liquid over the side. Marisol doesn’t even act disappointed or glare at me while she wipes it up. She just draws little shapes in the spill. Things really are bad.

“They can back out,” I say, taking out a fresh cloth and wiping the counter. “Or buy it back. I don’t care. We can’t lose this place.” And honestly, I still feel like it’s my fault that it’s on the brink of closing. I’m not going to apologize for getting Vin and Alec back together, though — even if it means they’re leaving the Proud Muffin behind.

I would never go that far.

“Come on, we have to figure this out,” I say.

If I can make broken-up relationships whole again, I can get a bakery back into one piece, right?

But only if I have other proud muffins to do it with me.

I can’t bake my way out of this one alone.

Gemma and Marisol look at each other, wordlessly trying to decide if they should accept a baby-child as their new leader. But I’m the only one serving up hope right now.

I’m not giving up on the bakery, and I’m not giving up on Harley. These love stories aren’t over yet.

“I don’t think Vin and Alec are wrong about the property,” Gemma says slowly. “Even if we could raise money to keep this place, we’d never be able to keep up with skyrocketing utilities and taxes. We’d get forced out just like they did. But if we could find another place . . . farther south, into the Hill Country? It could be a sort of art space, too. It would be so much cheaper, and we could be there for queer and trans folks who’ve never had anything like the Proud Muffin in their daily lives.”

Yes. Yes.

“So we do a bake sale?” I ask.

“Not enough money in that,” Marisol says automatically. My heart perks. She’s shooting down ideas, but she’s talking about this like it could be real. “Besides, a bake sale is basically what we do here every day.”

“What about a party boat?” Gemma tries, setting her prints in a pile, the great unhanging forgotten. She leans into the counter, and I lean in from the other side, Marisol sitting in the middle. “Queers love a good party boat.”

“On Ladybird Lake?” I ask. “It would cost a lot up front, but we could make a lot back . . .”

Marisol tuts. “Don’t either of you remember Splash Days?”

“Oh,” Gemma says. “The Hippie Hollow incident.”

“I don’t know what that means,” I say.

Marisol and Gemma exchange a look. Marisol says, “Well, this community organization teams up with bars downtown every year for a fundraiser, and a while back they rented a party boat on the lake, but when it passed by Hippie Hollow . . . you know what Hippie Hollow is, right?” She looks me over, trying to gauge just how naive I actually am.

“Nude beach,” I say. “The only one in Texas. W and I snuck in there once and went night swimming.” The memory comes without the harshness that others have. They’re getting hazier, softer, farther in the past.

Marisol even looks mildly impressed with me.

Gemma takes up the story where she left off. “Well, when the party boat passed Hippie Hollow, everyone piled on one side to see, you know, everything —”

“And it sank,” Marisol finishes flatly.

The three of us laugh so hard that it feels like the seams of the bakery could split with the sound. We keep laughing and pounding the counter and Gemma even starts to hiccup because she’s laughing so hard she can’t breathe. Marisol throws a muffin right at her face to scare her.

The hiccups stop.

We all start laughing again.

Ten minutes ago, I didn’t think laughing was possible.

“What else could we do?” Gemma asks. “A blowout party would be fun, but Austin has hundreds of parties every night. We need something special to pull people in . . . something that everyone will want to be a part of.”

I have an idea, but I’m afraid to say it out loud.

“We should do the Big Gay Texas Bakeout.” I take a sip of my tea at the end of that sentence, trying to look old and wise.

“That’s a joke,” Marisol scoffs.

“No, Syd’s right,” Gemma says slowly. “Bake sales are basic, but people love baking competitions. The first annual Big Gay Texas Bakeout. We could make it a yearly thing to support the bakery.” Gemma’s digging into this idea like it’s a three-course meal. There’s a reason she runs both the counter and the QTPOC nights — she’s organized and she takes initiative. “We can have folks from all over the area come and bake, charge an entry fee for bakers, and people who want to come see it can vote by giving money to their favorites —”

“Syd and I are judging,” Marisol interrupts.

“We can’t have any gross, over-sugared cakes winning,” I say. “The Proud Muffin stands for quality.”

“And love,” Marisol says, out of nowhere, planting her booted feet down on the counter. She stands up, her head almost brushing the ceiling. “This is all about finding the person who bakes with the most love.”

Marisol might have surprised me with that, but it’s true. Baking is where we put our hearts when there’s so much in them and we have to let it out. We put a piece of ourselves on a plate and hand it over to someone else.

“Forget love is love,” Gemma says, tossing aside the well-known phrase. “Our motto is love comes in every flavor.”

“Jessalee would like that,” I say. Gemma ducks her head and bats off my compliment with a cleaning rag, but she can’t hide her lovestruck smile.

“But where are we going to do it?” Marisol asks. “The bakery can hold a community event, but —”

“We need something bigger,” I finish.

Big enough to hold the biggest, gayest bakeout we can imagine.

I picture the great sweep of Austin. The metal and glass, the new high-rises and the low shady spots. There are so many beautiful parks, so many green spaces and rooftops and clubs where you could host an unforgettable event. But we need an outdoor lawn with room for hundreds of folks to roam. And ovens. Catering ovens? Are those a thing? A big tent would be nice.

My heart speeds across the city.

“I know someone who might do us a favor.”

I take out my phone and text Harley, my heart in my thumbs. I know things are weird between us, but I have to believe that Harley wants to save the Proud Muffin as much as I do.

Can I have Rae and Jay’s number?

It comes back to me almost immediately.

I spend two days in constant contact with Gemma and Marisol, planning for the bakeout and recruiting help. We decide that to keep everyone’s spirits — and donations — high, we have to bring it together before the original Proud Muffin closes.

Every minute of the next week that I’m not working or sitting in class, I’ll be making fliers and slapping them all over the city, writing posts about the event and putting them up all over the internet.

Between planning and publicizing, we go to Vin and Alec to ask for their blessing. Five employees have banded together to found a new Proud Muffin if we can raise enough startup money: Marisol, Gemma, D.C., Carlos, and Lex, which surprised everyone considering how new she is. Since I’m not eighteen, everyone thinks I’m too young to be part of it. Which makes sense, but that doesn’t mean it goes down smooth.

“What do you think?” Gemma asks our bosses. “Is this . . . okay?”

Alec gives all of us hugs that lift us off our feet. Vin cries a little bit, growls at us for making him cry, and then cries a little more.

“I’m already scouting new locations,” Gemma says, “and almost everyone who works here says they’ll stick with us if we move.”

Almost everyone.

Harley hasn’t committed yet, and that’s making me nervous. Nearly as nervous as every time I text about the bakeout and get another helpful but completely impersonal response. Yes, Harley is going to bike around the UT campus and hang up fliers. Yes, Harley can help set up a bike stand for everyone who rides to the bakeout. No, Harley won’t say anything about what happened between us, or what nearly happened and then dramatically didn’t happen — probably because they think there’s nothing left to say. And every time I start composing a massive I-need-to-tell-you-everything text, I stop myself halfway through and erase it.

I might have to stop waiting for things to line up like I’m following a recipe instead of falling in love, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to text-bomb Harley with everything I’ve figured out, everything I feel.

They deserve more than that.

As I watch the final details of the bakeout settle into place, I start thinking about what’s going to happen when Harley and I see each other at the event on Saturday. I try not to play it through my head a thousand different ways.

I keep myself too busy to worry. Most of the time.

When the morning of the bakeout comes, I’m sitting on the couch with the last of the Big Feelings Cookies and a cup of coffee. In the middle of the planning whirlwind, I packaged up the extras and overnighted them to Tess at college. She called me to tell me that she feels really great about being single, actually, and also feels like she’s probably always going to stay that way, at which point I might have snuck the word aroace into the conversation. You know, just in case she wants to look it up.

She also feels, very deeply, that these cookies are perfect with her new favorite drink, and I’ll admit: coffee becomes exponentially better when it’s soaked into a chocolate chip cookie. That doesn’t mean I’m a convert, but I pull out my phone to tell her she’s right.

When I open my texts, I see Harley’s right at the top. I scroll backward, past the awkward messages we sent this week, back to the time when we were taking magical bakes all over Austin. When we were flirting so hard that every single sentence we sent back and forth was rich with hope and sweetness and anticipation. I miss that.

I miss it more than I ever missed W.

I can’t imagine spending today with anyone but Harley. No matter what is or isn’t going to happen between us. So I text:

See you at the bakeout later?

A reply comes right away. See you there, Syd

Another few moments pass. Harley’s typing.

It’s going to be great

What’s going to be great? Is Harley just talking about the bakeout, like we have been all week? Is this something more? Or am I so hungry for that sort of message that I’m seeing it baked into a simple text?

I’m so nervous about what’s going to happen on absolutely every level today that I bolt most of the coffee and jitter my way upstairs to get dressed, leaving the rest of the cookies uneaten.

I pad softly past Mom and Dad’s room. They’ll be up soon, and they’re determined to come to the entire bakeout, even though it’s set to run all day and into the evening. They might not understand every dimension of my life, but they know what it’s like to need money to keep your dreams alive. Now that they have some money of their own, they’re a little too eager to donate. Plus my mom keeps offering to sew aprons for everybody, and my dad says that he’ll design our new website for free.

I told them I would meet them at the main tent around nine, because their extra hour of sleep on Saturday morning is vital. I pull on an outfit — my best jean cutoffs and a tank top — trying not to second-guess it.

There’s a knock at the door.

My heart wobbles like an underbaked custard as I run for the door.

What if Harley decided to come see me before the bakeout?

But when I open the door, it’s not Harley. It’s not even Gemma or Marisol. It’s an older Black man, about seventy, with dark brown skin and a starched white shirt. His gray hair puffs out near his ears, under a Panama hat. He’s wearing linen pants, polished oxfords. To be honest, a lot of the queers I know would die for his style. I don’t recognize him, but there’s a weird floating sense that I should.

There’s someone in the car on the street, just behind him. Someone sitting in the passenger seat with their head leaned back in a way that spells frustration.

“Is everything all right with your car?” I ask.

I stare at it in a vague way. I’ve always admired muscle queers who know about cars and lift weights and look like they should be in The Outsiders. But the closest I’ve gotten is changing my flat tire one time on the left side of MoPac while cars nearly tore my clothes off passing by at eighty miles per hour on the expressway. Once I got the spare donut on, I drove straight to Gourdough’s and celebrated still being alive with one of their cherry-bomb doughnut holes. It seemed appropriate.

“We’re just fine,” the old man says. “But we’ve been driving around this neighborhood for a while, looking for a coffee place I used to like so much, and we got lost. I was wondering if y’all have a map.”

“The maps are in their phones!” the person in the car shouts, waving a hand out the window. “Every damn thing is in their phones.”

“This neighborhood switches around every time I turn my back,” the old man says. “Not changing as fast as where I live, though. You know East Austin?”

“Oh, definitely.” I’ve been to a breakfast place in East Austin where the Benedicts kill you with butter and then resurrect you with the tang of fried green tomatoes. I’ve visited a tent where they carry out boiled crawfish in metal buckets, by the pound. I’ve bum-rushed a food truck where you can order an entire roasted chicken for lunch, spritzed with lime, swimming in a hot spring of savory juices. I’ve also, year by year, seen those places vanishing. Houses ripped up and replaced by condos with blank faces and New York City prices. All of Austin’s starting to look like the mash of sameness you get when you chew things up and spit them back out. But East Austin’s the historically Black neighborhood, and it’s been hit extra hard by gentrification in the last few years.

“Hey, I know you,” the old man says. His smile is the white of a perfect buttercream. “From that bakery with the rainbows.”

“I’m Syd,” I say. “And the bakery is closing.” That’s why I thought I should know him. He used to come by when I worked the front. When you give people coffee and treats, they tend to think of you in a glowing way forever.

“Oh, that’s a shame,” he says.

“We’re trying to save it, though.” I grab my phone from my pocket and pull up the flier that Gemma designed.

“This is today?” he asks, his face very, very close to my phone. “Sounds like good fun. I am busy on the weekends though. I’ll have to check in at work. You know, people think laundromats run themselves, but they don’t.”

“Laundromats?”

I look at the car behind him, and I realize that it isn’t just carrying a single, sulking passenger. It’s loaded up with boxes. Cardboard boxes, moving crates. This is one of the couples I broke up. The last couple.

This is Martin Thomas.

“Sorry,” I say, focusing back on him. “I just . . . thought I recognized the person in the car, too. You know. From the bakery.”

“That’s Josiah,” he says, back to that smile. “And I’m Martin.”

I almost slip and say I know.

Something inside of me snaps as I shake his hand. I’m not letting that car go anywhere. I run into the house again. I grab the last two of the Big Feelings Cookies. It’s all I have, and I hope it’s what Martin needs.

I run back out with the cookies on a napkin, along with a mug of black coffee.

“I just brewed this,” I say. “And I made the cookies myself. Since you didn’t make it to the bakery, is it weird if I offer you some?”

“Maybe I’m older than I thought when I last checked,” Martin says, “but I would call it polite.”

He accepts the mug and the napkin. He takes a single bite of the cookie and chews in a slow, considering way. Martin Thomas is the kind of eater who is not going to open his mouth to speak until every last crumb is swallowed or brushed away.

“I want to tell you a story,” he says.

“All right,” I say. I was sort of hoping that he would run back to the car and tell Josiah that he still has feelings, that he wants to stay together. A quick reunion would really help me out right now — I don’t have time for anything longer.

I have to leave for the bakeout.

But I also have to let this magic do its work. I promised that I would help the people who ate my brownies.

I sit down on my front steps to let Martin know I’m ready to listen.

“I used to come south of the bridges all the time. I was with my wife back then; I had a wife when I was young, and I loved her very much, which some people find hard to believe now.”

“I get that.” I do. Even when people know you’re bi or pan or otherwise not-all-one-gender-oriented, they can still get stuck on a single way of seeing you. Especially if you’ve been with one person for a long time. As excited as I was to start dating W, I could sometimes feel people deciding I was a lesbian. Lesbians are amazing; it’s just not the right word for me. I can only imagine how much harder that would be for a man who was probably born during World War II.

“My wife passed on when we were still young, after three children,” he says with a sigh that’s slipped back in time, past sadness, all the way back to pure adoration.

Then it passes, and he looks back at the car, where the person inside is ignoring him in a passionate, pointed way. “When my children were grown, I found Josiah. He waltzed into my life right when I thought I was done with being in love. This was literal waltzing. Josiah is a dancer, you know.”

I don’t, but I like how he keeps saying that, as if we’ve been meeting like this in the street for years.

Josiah has apparently been waiting in the car for long enough. He snaps the car door shut behind him. The way he moves is like air threading through tree branches. He’s probably in his sixties, but he’s wearing clothes that look comfortably ageless: stretchy pants, a big, flowing T-shirt, a delicate silver chain down his chest. His hair is shaved close, cut into ninety-degree angles that frame his long, oval face. His shoes, in high contrast with Martin’s, are flawless white sneakers.

“What are you doing?” he asks, and at first, I think he’s talking to me, that he’s figured out the deep, uncomfortable truth of my offering. But he taps Martin’s arm. “You’re keeping this young person from enjoying breakfast in peace.”

The love I feel for Josiah and that breezy way of not gendering me is immediate and intense. Why can’t more people do that? Just waltz right around words like boy and girl until they know more?

“I was just telling Syd here about a foolish old man who fell in love,” Martin says. “And wants to stay that way.”

“Oh, him,” Josiah says, rolling his eyes. Then his gaze hooks on me. “Are those cookies homemade?”

“My own coconut chocolate chip recipe,” I confirm. “I brought them out, since I was already bringing coffee and . . .”

“We can’t possibly,” Josiah says in a way that makes me think the only thing holding him back are the rubber bands of social nicety.

“Oh, I already did,” Martin admits, taking another bite.

“Well, if we’re not putting you out . . .”

“I made enough to share,” I say. Which is true.

There’s a delicate footwork to offering people food. You can’t actually make anyone eat. Basically from birth we have opinions and feelings and fears and cravings when it comes to what goes into our bodies. What passes through our lips and becomes part of us. It’s instinct and it’s what we’ve learned and it’s what we like, it’s culture and personal history and how hungry we are at any given moment. It took me a long time to figure out that I can’t push too hard. I just have to lead and hope Josiah follows.

I edge the cookie forward.

He looks away, like it’s a too-hot sun.

“You’re going to love this,” Martin says, right before he finishes his own cookie. “I just have a feeling about it.” Josiah throws a hard look at him, but something in Martin’s face makes him soften.

Josiah grabs the cookie. He takes a bite.

Then he goes still. Very, very still.

There’s something about a dancer’s stillness that’s different. It feels studied and simple and complete, like the moment before everything bursts into new motion. Josiah closes his eyes and I can hear my breath as I wait to see what happens next. All down the street, the wind kisses the trees, and the leaves shiver.

Martin gets down on one knee.

“Um. A little help?” he asks me, handing the coffee mug back.

I help him make it the full way down. Martin pulls a simple, beautiful silver ring out of his chest pocket. “This is how I feel. This is how I’ve felt for a long time.” Josiah is watching him in something between shock and wonderment.

I take a few steps back, because I don’t want to completely intrude on their moment, but I’m also completely caught up in it. I watch as Martin shakes his head and smiles up at the person he loves. “You’ve taught me that it’s not enough to be in love, you have to show it every day. Sometimes that’s hard for me, but I know we have so much more to show each other. So, this is how I’m doing it, right now.”

Josiah shakes his head, and at first I think he’s saying no — but then I realize he’s laughing. “This is why you went silent on me two weeks ago? I thought you were pulling away, when you were just working yourself up to propose?”

“That’s the one,” Martin says. “I was . . . well, I was scared.”

Josiah puts a hand over his mouth, and a few tears run around it. “Why?”

Martin presses his lips together. He’s feeling something big, and I know that battle — he’s trying to let it out. “I thought that if it wasn’t perfect, if it I didn’t do this right . . . I thought you might say no.”

“Yes,” Josiah says, overlapping the last word. “Yes, I am saying yes.”

And then Josiah helps Martin back up, and they’re kissing and hugging, and I wish I had rice to throw, because this might not be a wedding, but it feels a little bit like I just watched two strangers get married right in front of me.

I’ve never seen a proposal before. It was the most amazing, scary thing I’ve ever experienced. And I was just standing there holding a mug of cold coffee.

Josiah heads back to the car. I sip at the mug, which is still full. Because this was never about finding coffee. Those last two cookies brought them here. They called out with magic, and Martin answered. He needed a chance to show Josiah how he felt, before it was too late.

Have I been doing the wrong thing — waiting and worrying and focusing on the bakeoff when I should be showing Harley exactly how I feel?

“Oh, shit,” I say, wincing at the coffee and the fact that I just swore in front of an old person. “I forgot to get you a map.”

“I think I can find my way home,” he says, looking at Josiah’s back as he sways his way into the car. Martin takes his rightful place in the car next to Josiah. Their car disappears around the corner, and I run inside to put down the coffee and grab my bag for the bakeout.

I should have left minutes ago. I check my phone to find the fastest route to the bakeout — and every single road is red with traffic.

“Not today, Austin!” I shout, shouldering my bag.

I’ve been trying to give Harley space, but the truth is that I need the city’s cutest bike messenger right now — for more than one reason. So I send a text, hoping with all of my might that Harley hasn’t already left for the bakeout.

Traffic problems. Stuck at home. Can I ride with you?

Wait. You mean. Bike?

Yes.

Yes!

It’s the first exclamation point I’ve gotten from Harley in a week — and I honestly can’t tell if it’s for me or just biking in general.

I have ten to fifteen minutes before Harley gets here, and I go into a frenzy getting ready. There’s not much time to pull off what I’m thinking about. I run around gathering what I need: recipe cards, pens, and some of my favorite food websites pulled up on my phone. Then I sit on the front steps and settle in.

Twelve minutes later, around the same corner that Martin and Josiah just turned, Harley comes rushing, standing up on the pedals and leaning into the curve — on the front seat of a tandem bike. Harley skids to a stop right in front of me, looking breathless.

“Hey.” Harley’s ever-present messenger bag is missing, but the pronoun pin is on the pocket of Harley’s T-shirt: they.

Harley’s cheeks are a deliciously flushed pink. I try not to feel too many feelings at once. And fail. I’m nervous and flustered and completely out of time and really, really happy to see them.

I’m also confused about this bike choice.

“Wait, what about Shadowfax?” I ask.

“How do you know that name?” Harley asks through a suspicious squint. They lift a bike helmet out of a large canvas bag hanging on their handlebars. It’s silver and more or less my size. Harley hands it to me.

“I thought I was finally getting that handlebar ride you promised me,” I say, strapping it on. I can’t quite keep the flirting out of my voice.

Harley blushes all the way up to their hairline — or rather where their bright blue helmet cuts off their hairline. “Yeah. That.”

We’ve never been not flirting.

But now I know that isn’t enough.

“That works if we’re just going a few blocks away, but not when we have to beat traffic and cross like four highways,” Harley says. “This is how I taught my siblings to ride on the street. It’s way more practical.”

“I have never, never heard anyone describe a tandem bike as practical,” I deadpan. It’s just such a cute rom-com thing to do. Riding around Zilker Park on rental bikes with Harley was one thing, but not quite as ridiculously adorable as this. If we arrive at the bakeout together on this bike, and we’re not dating, how do I explain that one to Marisol?

It sounds excruciating.

“Well, your other choice is renting from one of those scooter stands all over the city,” Harley says.

“Those scooters,” I groan in utter agony. “Tandem bike it is.”

Harley pulls out a silver pair of riding gloves that match my helmet — the kind with the exposed knuckles. “You knew I was going to love those,” I say.

Harley shrugs. “I pay attention. Speaking of which, I like your shirt.”

This morning, I threw on my Cupcakes Have No Gender tank top. It just felt right.

“All right,” Harley says, nodding to the seat behind them. “Hop on.”

“Wait. I have something to give you.” There’s no time, but I don’t care. Or rather, I care way too much about trying to fix this, and I can’t stop myself. I pull something out of the chest pocket of my shirt. It’s not a ring, and I’m not down on one knee, but it’s definitely how I show my feelings.

“A recipe?” Harley asks, turning the card over with this faint but sticking amusement on their face. “For turkey pot pie.”

“Turkey and butter,” I say.

“Our favorite flavors, together at last,” Harley adds with a quick laugh.

“I really feel like I can improve on the generic, stodgy recipe, you know?” I sound breathless as I rush back to my comfort zone — talking about food. “Throw in some brighter flavors. Update the whole thing. Make it something truly special.”

“Sounds pretty delicious,” Harley says, but I can tell it isn’t enough.

I can feel my heartbeat in my fingertips as I pull out another card. “Here’s one more.”

Harley flips this one over. “It just says ‘Falling in Love.’”

They look up at me, straddling a bike in the street, waiting until I explain exactly how I feel.

“That’s because . . . I don’t know how it works. I don’t have a recipe for this, for us. But I know I want to finish our fight, which is very new for me.” My throat sticks, and I have to manually restart my voice. “Watching all of those people break up and get back together hasn’t taught me how to make the perfect relationship. At all. The only thing I’ve figured out is that there are no standard timings and no obvious ingredients and . . . I don’t want the same thing all over again. I liked W and I needed to feel safe with someone, and I don’t regret that. But then with us? I feel so safe and so happy and also like my heart is completely at risk.”

Harley’s eyes go wide.

“Syd . . .”

My phone vibrates and dings with a message notification. I grab it from my pocket — and find a dozen different variations on “Where the hell are you?” from literally everyone I work with.

I need to get to the other side of this with Harley, but I can’t let down the Proud Muffin, either.

“We are so late,” I say, throwing myself onto the seat behind Harley. “But we’re finishing this fight later, okay?”

“Okay, Syd,” Harley says, and I swear there’s a teaspoon of anticipation in their tone. “Just hold on and don’t stop pedaling.”

“Right,” I say. “Pedaling.” I’ve been so worried about telling Harley how I feel that I haven’t had any time to worry about biking ten miles through heavy traffic. We lurch into motion, and my body pitches forward. I grab the tandem bike’s secondary set of handlebars, my eyes fixed firmly on Harley’s back.

I pedal as fast as my feet can possibly go.

The whirl of colors and the scream of cars all around me starts out intense — and stays intense. We tear across the city, pausing at stop signs and pushing through green lights, letting the scenery rush and settle: bike shops and coffee shops and trees in flower, restaurants and houses, bright paint and neon everywhere.

The rush never really stops, but I refuse to close my eyes. They water as the wind pushes against us, and I feel my way further into this sensation. And at some point, I start to like it. My body feels like part of a much bigger picture. My breath is no longer fighting the breeze. We stop at a red light, and Harley checks in with me.

“You okay back there?”

I shout, wordless and happy.

We go fast and then, when we hit a string of lucky green lights, faster and faster. I inhale the whole blurred, beautiful neighborhood. My legs spin so hard that they burn, my smile pins itself in place, my heart stretches wide with fear and love.

They feel like the same thing.

 

1 big lawn, open field, or other outdoor space

12 ovens

1 big tent

2 hosts

2 bakers to act as judges

3 challenges chosen to produce the most subversively, creatively, flamboyantly, or otherwise queerly delicious bakes

50 or so handy phrases like “that’s nice but the gay just isn’t coming through” and “no soggy bottoms” (look, some things are already perfect)

1 local news crew, invited to spread the word and encourage donations from people at home

As many amateur bakers as you can find

As many LGBTQIAP+ people and allies as you can possibly invite

1 empty stomach

Give yourself at least a week to plan, but not too much more time, because you’ll realize how much work this actually is, and you’ll stop yourself before you’ve truly started.

Invite every single person you know. Yes, that includes your sister and her college friends who live several states away. Yes, that includes your new crush. Yes, that includes your ex-girlfriend. Yes, that includes her grandma.

Put on your best outfit.

Make your way to the event space. Watch as your crew mills around, excited and terrified in equal measure, ready to raise an absurd amount of money and save the day.

Watch as the bakers arrive, lugging their mixers, muttering frosting recipes under their breath.

Watch as the crowds gather.

Wait for that moment when everyone is paying attention, and paying good money for their extremely cute, screen-printed Love Comes in Every Flavor T-shirts.

Ready?

Set?

Bake!