Apple Feelings Turnover—
flaky on the outside, warm and gooey on the inside, high potential for making a mess
My elbows rest on my knees, and my legs hang over the side of my bed. I dig my Christmas llama socks into the rug. But no amount of massaging my temples seems to be easing my stewing. So I stand up, shaking myself out, but the anxious buzzing in my chest will not subside. I just keep hearing Kate’s words over and over, like a mantra of my own foolish hopefulness. And the thing is, I don’t think I’d have cared so much a day ago. I mean, I’d have been pissed, don’t get me wrong, but having her say those things only moments after seeing the bakery booth was like a stake to the heart.
I know everything changes after a breakup. I mean, I’ve already been through that ordeal with Wilder. But I just didn’t realize how lonely it would be without Jake, how awkward I would feel in my everyday life. School now feels like a place I don’t belong. At lunch, Jake sits with some of our friends and Wilder sits with the rest. To Wilder’s credit, he offered our old table to me, but I refused it. It’d only make things worse, framing him as some sort of martyr. So I sit by myself, staring out the window and just waiting for the days to pass until winter break.
Unlike my weekdays, however, my weekends have been full of life. The holiday market is in full swing, and I’ve been working in our booth with my dad from morning until night. After school, I go by the bakery and help him with the extra baking to restock.
My dad wipes the counter clean around my mess, handing me a package of bags for the peppermint bark that’s cooled on the rack. “I notice we’re all on our own this year with the booth,” he says, like by not saying Wilder’s name he can ease me into talking about him.
“Uh, yeah,” I say. “I think he’s been busy with all his finals and whatnot.”
My dad nods, throwing a hand towel over his shoulder. “He came by to see me the other day.”
My head whips up from my bowl. “What? Why?”
Dad stands just a few feet down the counter, twisting the lid off the brown sugar container. “He wanted to offer his help, in case we were shorthanded.”
“What did you say?” I ask, my words rushed.
He pours the sugar into a bowl that is balanced on a small scale. “I told him you would let him know if we did.”
All the air leaves my lungs in a heavy exhale. “Okay good. Thanks,” I say, my heart decelerating.
Then in a rare moment of chattiness, my father continues the conversation, something that only really happens here in our bakery, which has some magical power to bring him out of his usual quietude. “I’m not trying to pry, but if you want to talk about it, I’d be happy to listen.”
The offer hits me hard. I’ve often felt these past few weeks that I’ve been silently screaming into the void and it’s as though he just heard my SOS. “Everything’s fine—” I say reflexively and stop, swallowing my words and the swell of emotion that follows. “Actually . . . everything isn’t fine.” I put down my spoon, my head hanging over my bowl. I peek in his direction and find that he’s come to stand next to me.
He places his hand on my shoulder. And even though we’re not a huggy family, I turn, wrapping my arms around him. He smells of vanilla and cinnamon, a scent he often trails through our house when he comes home from work, and when he hugs me back, I press my face into his shoulder like an old familiar blanket that has the power to blot out fear.
“I lost my best friend,” I say into his shirt, my eyes blurring with tears. “The one person who really—” I stop before I say loved me. “And I can’t fix it. It’s just broken, smashed to bits.”
“Shhh,” he says against my head, his short beard catching in my hair. “He’s not lost. He’s still there. You’ll see. Sometimes it takes people a while to find their way back to one another, especially when they’re as close as the two of you. The more you care, the more you hurt. But I can promise you that one day you’ll look back on this and realize that it’s all okay, that everything worked out for the best.”
I nod against his chest, wanting to believe him, to bolster myself with the confidence in his voice and the sturdiness of his embrace. We stand like that for a long while, me crying myself out and him shushing away the sadness. It’s the first time since I was little that I remember him holding me like this. And for a moment, I think maybe he’s right—maybe the people who truly care about you do show up just when you need them.
My phone buzzes on my bed and I turn around to face it, fully expecting that it’ll be a text from Spence telling me to come downstairs. But no.
I instantly look up and around my room like there’s a hidden camera and someone’s pranking me.
I stare at the texts. Is this really what he thinks he should be doing? Texting me right after his girlfriend tore him a new one?
I exhale audibly, typing out Then talk, my thumb poised over the send button without actually pressing it. And as if he could read my mind, he says:
Of course you do; I’m surprised you even own a cell phone because it clashes with your European aristocratic vibe. I purse my lips together, erasing my text and pushing my hair back from my forehead. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m in dangerous waters. If everyone has a destiny, ours is to have the most complicated relationship of all time, one that can only end in disaster and somehow include very public humiliation on my end.
I should say no. I’ll see him at the bakery in the morning anyway. What difference will half a day make? But at the same time, I understand his urgency to clear the air; it’s something we failed at spectacularly when we were teens.
“Mom?” Spence says, popping his head in the room. I whip around so fast you’d think I got caught eating his candy.
“Yeah?” I say, my voice a little too high-pitched.
“Wanna come play a board game with me and Grandma? I keep telling her that there are lots of digital games we can play, but she’s insisting on finding Balderdash.”
I smile. Balderdash was my favorite as a kid. She actively disliked it as I remember, which makes it just a little bit cute that she’s digging it out now.
“Let’s do it,” I say enthusiastically.
I quickly type a response to Wilder and toss my phone on my bed, leaving it there while I join Spence.
Please, please don’t let me regret this.
The morning after the conversation with my dad, I wake up early, still feeling the safety of his reassurance wrapped around me like a hug. I grab the water glass on my bedside table and chug it, remembering the Advil Wilder left me five weeks ago. I haven’t drank since. Truth is, I haven’t been to a party since or any social event, really. And in a moment of clarity, I realize how stupid that is.
I swing my legs out of bed, feeling lighter than I have in months. It’s Sunday, which means booth day, and I’m actually starting to wonder if my dad is right, if maybe things aren’t as bleak as I thought they were. It’s funny how one small thing, like a well-timed hug or an understanding comment, can change a person’s perspective. It makes me wonder how many things could shift if we were more generous with one another.
And in a moment of true optimism, I pluck the portable phone off my nightstand. Before I can psych myself out, I dial Wilder’s number, the landline that only rings in his room, and when I hear his sleepy voice on the other end, my stomach drops to my toes.
“Wilder?” I say, even though it’s obviously him.
“Maddi?” he replies, his blankets rustling like he just sat straight up in bed. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, staring out my window and digging my toes into the rug. “Everything’s fine. Or at least I think it will be. I was just wondering . . . do you want to come help at the booth today?”
“Wait, really?”
For a flash of an instant, I feel silly. “I mean, only if you want—”
“I want to,” he says so assuredly that some of my doubt drops away.
“Okay then, see you there?” I say, cutting the conversation short so neither of us has the chance to change our minds.