I had the worst friends. My drunkenness last night hit unprecedented levels. I was too messy to be allowed in public, but they kept supplying me with drinks and encouraging words.

If I had great friends, they would have taken me home after I suggested doing a conga line through the Donut Hole, leaving a trail of ketchup and mustard in our wake. Instead, they joined in. Filthy traitors. And the worst part: they didn’t even once think to take my phone away. What sort of friends wouldn’t stop their nearest and dearest from texting whilst under the influence of one too many margaritas? Traitors. That’s who.

Even though my texting was usually more a hit and miss of letters while drunk, I still somehow managed to get the messages out to the big wide world last night.

I woke up this morning with the mother of all hangovers and a serious case of texting regret. I stared at the trail of text messages from last night in horror. I prayed that Jameson hadn’t read them. Maybe they got lost along the way. Sometimes messages didn’t send. It happened all the time.

I scrolled back to the first text.

Me: I love

Me: cupcakes

Me: I love cupcakes

Me: There’s a direct causal link between my boob size and my fetish for cupcakes

Me: Stella tried giving me a Chinese burn. Turned into a Tongan burn

Me: Accidently typed Tongan tornado into Urban dictionary. I need to wash my eyes out with acid. Or margarita.

Me: Urban dictionary needs to list Tongan burn

Me: Tongan burn… your burn doesn’t even touch the roof of the farm house

Me: I like big butts and I cannot lie they didn’t accept my entry. Lame Dictionary

Me: That’s meant to say I like big butts and I cannot lie

Me: NO ducking phone, I like big butts and I cannot lie

Me: Tell Landon to write his obituararary.

Me: After filixing my prune.

Me: I have three boobs.

Me: Long livet the cupacaaaaaake.

He hadn’t replied to any of my texts, and I doubted he would. Because who in their right mind would? They didn’t make any sense.

My alarm went off again, telling me I was once again running late. Sorry, Rayna.

I took a shower, because nobody would appreciate eau de brewery, and ten minutes later I was on my way.

Since I had no car or bike, I had to take the bus. It took longer than anticipated, and I forgot to bring change. Apparently anything larger than a ten-dollar bill was unacceptable. I finally convinced the bus driver to take my money and keep the change. There went my food budget for the next two days.

After I missed my stop and had to walk the two miles back, I finally dragged my half-dead carcass into the bakery and slumped against the bench.

“What the hell happened to you? Did you miss out on Justin Bieber tickets again?” Rayna greeted me, already elbow deep in dough.

“Long night.”

She winked at me. “Jameson must have some stamina.”

I flinched like she had slapped me at her mention of Jameson. The flinch was too obvious, and she stopped kneading and turned all her attention to me. “Willa.” One word and I was ashamed to admit I burst into tears. “Oh no, what happened? Come and rest your puddleface on your auntie’s big chest.”

I had to admit her boobs were right up there on the comfortable scale. Guess our family had good genes. I gladly accepted her invite and fell into her open arms. She held me tight and rubbed my back. Luckily, I had no aversion to dough. My back was sure to be covered in it.

It took me a while to pull myself back together and form a coherent sentence. Rayna waited me out like she always did, her presence comforting and warm.

I wiped my eyes and straightened up. Rayna’s apron was now not only covered in dough but wet as well. It looked like she lost a round of doughwrestling.

“I screwed up.”

“I figured.”

“Hey, where’s the support?”

She looked at my clothes, and I got the point. I was wearing a stained lime green T-shirt and purple pants. I couldn’t recall ever buying them, but since I had missed laundry day for the fourth time in a row, I had to wear whatever didn’t smell too bad.

I guess point made.

The day dragged on. Rayna let me eat whatever I wanted, which meant she knew how much I was hurting.

She usually cut me off after three pastries, but not today. Today I even got to sample the new chocolate cake she made. After I sufficiently stuffed myself, she handed me a bag of flour and pushed me in front of my bench space. “Now get to work. This stuff is not going to bake itself.”

I swallowed the last of my red velvet cupcake and started measuring out ingredients. We worked in silence for a while until Rayna said, “You know you can still fix things with Jameson.”

“I don’t think so, Rayna.”

“I saw the way he looked at you. It was more than passing interest.”

“Didn’t you listen when I told you how badly I screwed up?” I thought back to the look of betrayal on his face. I was such an idiot.

“Stop being such a drama queen and talk to him.”

I hadn’t yet told her about the text messages. Because before I sent them, I had every intention of talking to him. But now? Not so much. I’d barricade myself behind closed doors and hope he didn’t need to speak to me when I went to the office later. I was embarrassed.

I stayed at the bakery for longer than usual. God knew I had a lot of hours to make up. I was also avoiding being by myself and without anything to do. Rayna shot me a few knowing looks but didn’t say anything.

When I finally peeled myself away from Sweet Dreams, I was stuffed full of sugar and felt sick. The bus was slow, and it took me nearly double than usual the time to get to the garage.

Jameson wasn’t there when I got in, and the guys only shot me a few grunts in greeting. Guess Jameson wasn’t the only one mad at me.

Nobody came into the office all afternoon. And I mean not a single person. No customer, no Landon, and no Jameson. I felt shittier than the waitress at Sparkie’s who gets to unblock the toilets after they put their spicy buffalo wings on special.

I left without talking to anyone, feeling sorry for myself. Not only did I have a pounding headache, I also had a serious case of the regrets. So I did what I did best in situations that refused to solve themselves and ate a tub of ice cream and a few—read four—cupcakes for dinner.

It didn’t make my world right again, but it certainly helped in my quest to finding my sugar limit. Everyone had one. That point where you know you’ve eaten way too much sugar-laden goodness and turn into a ball of useless energy only to crash a few short minutes later. I was grateful when I finally crashed.