Week six, baby is the size of a rainbow sprinkle.
A few hours after Rake left for the airport to catch his flight back to Australia, Lizzie was thanking the goddesses above and below for finally sending her a job interview. After hanging up with a cranky-sounding woman named Bernadette and jotting down the address to the aptly named Bernadette’s Bakery for her interview in a few hours, Lizzie squealed then spun in a quick circle around the kitchen floor before ransacking her pantry.
Maybe things will actually work out, she thought as she stood at the stove, whisking her Bad-Ass-Bitch Banana Pudding into luscious smoothness, the soft and delicate scent of vanilla and bananas wrapping around her like a comforting blanket.
Maybe.
As long as she actually got the job, kept the job, figured out how and when to ask for time off for doctor’s appointments, magically secured health insurance, and got adequate maternity leave.
The joys (logistical nightmares) of motherhood were filling her already.
The front door opened as she took her mixture off the stove to cool, and Indira, Harper, and Thu’s voices filled the apartment. They stopped in their tracks as they rounded the corner to the living room, obviously not expecting Lizzie to be there. She instantly felt so awkward that she did an odd little toe-ball-heel shuffle across the floor to grab a box of vanilla wafers and expel the energy pulsing through her.
“Hi,” Lizzie said at last, giving them a flap of a wave with the cookies in hand.
“Hi,” Indira said back, crossing the space to wrap her arms around Lizzie in a hug. “We’re sorry,” she added, placing a kiss on Lizzie’s temple.
Lizzie pulled back, tucking her hair behind her ears as she stared down at the floor. “Nothing to be sorry about,” she said. “I’m the one that’s the idiot.”
“You’re not,” Harper said, giving Lizzie a similar hug. “We were surprised and caught off guard and definitely didn’t say the right things … Right, Thu?”
Lizzie glanced over at Thu, who still hovered across the room, looking down at the ground. After a beat she looked up, meeting Lizzie’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. And Lizzie almost fainted from the shock of it. Thu wasn’t one to apologize, whether she was wrong or not.
“You really don’t have to be,” Lizzie said, waving her hands to dispel the tension. She would rather not talk about it. She would rather avoid revisiting the words said between them until the day she died. Then she wouldn’t have to feel them.
“No, Lizzie, I do. I was judgmental and bitchy, and I know that … Harper and Indira have made sure I know that,” she said, flashing the friends a sheepish grin. “But I … I worry about you … That maybe you won’t make the best decisions for yourself, and the last thing I want is to see you hurt. But it isn’t my place to judge you. I’m supposed to be your cheerleader, not your mother.”
Lizzie swallowed past the lump in her throat, doing a full-body shake to rid herself of the choked-up feeling. She walked across the apartment and gave Thu a giant hug.
“Thank you, Thu-Thu.” Lizzie pulled back, looking around at her friends. “I’m really fucking scared,” she admitted.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Harper asked, pouring herself a cup of coffee at the counter then moving to the couch. The rest of them followed suit.
Lizzie plopped down on the cushions, all the air leaving her body in a massive sigh. She launched into how she met Rake and their resulting two-night stand. She explained about the condom and taking the pregnancy tests and calling Rake. She told them everything except for the teeny-tiny, minuscule, probably-just-indigestion pangs of feeling in her chest for him. Because Lizzie didn’t do relationships. She’d been told her whole life what a burden her feelings were to others, and she’d rather die than subject a partner to that.
“So where did you and Rake leave things?” Indira asked.
“Well, we decided to coparent and stuff. One of his parents is originally from the U.S. so he has dual citizenship, apparently. He also mentioned some job opportunity here that he’s going to take.”
“And what will coparenting look like?” Thu asked.
Lizzie shrugged. “Uh, well, I think maybe it’s going to look like he and I … uh … living together?” Lizzie shot a quick glance at Indira to see how she was taking the news. The pair had known each other since high school and lived together for the last five years, taking many drunken vows to die together in their apartment.
Indira nodded, unlatching the iron grip of nerves around Lizzie’s heart. “I totally get it.”
“Are you two, like, together?” Harper asked.
Lizzie shook her head. “No. Definitely not. We don’t … I don’t think we … We don’t feel that way for each other. It’s more of a totally-platonic-roommates-who-happened-to-have-had-really-great-sex-a-few-times-and-then-made-a-baby situation.”
“Pretty run-of-the-mill stuff,” Thu added dryly, smiling at Lizzie.
“I know it isn’t normal,” Lizzie said, adding air quotes around the last word. “But I think it kind of makes sense … right? We’ll both be around to raise le bébé, split finances, et cetera, et cetera. And if it totally sucks, then we get our own places or whatever. I don’t know.” Lizzie pressed one hand over her thrumming heart and the other over her rolling tummy, feeling overwhelmed.
“And are you going to bone this platonic roommate?” Indira asked, arching a perfect, thick eyebrow.
“We haven’t talked about it, but I’m not exactly opposed to the idea,” Lizzie said, plucking at the couch. The truth was, she’d been dreaming about Rake, naked and sweaty with his head between her thighs, every night since they’d met, and the idea was creeping into her daytime psyche too.
“That sounds a bit messy,” Thu said, a soft warning in her voice.
“When am I not?” Lizzie said with a laugh. “And it’s just sex. We’re both adults. It’s fine.” The room was quiet for a moment while they all turned that over.
“When are you guys leaving?” Lizzie asked Thu and Harper.
“Thu’s flight leaves tonight, and Dan and I are taking the train back to New York at five.”
Lizzie nodded, sadness poking at the soft spot between her ribs at the impending goodbye.
“I actually better get going,” Lizzie said, glancing at the time on her phone. “I have an interview at a bakery in Fishtown—I’ll clean up the kitchen when I get back, Dira,” Lizzie said, standing and taking in the mess she’d made. “Thank you guys for…” Lizzie flapped her hands at them, feeling overcome with emotions again.
“We’ll always be here for you, Lizzie,” Harper said, standing to give her a hug. Thu and Indira latched on, and they stayed like that for a few heartbeats, their golden thread of friendship weaving and buzzing through their veins, binding them together.
Eventually, Lizzie disentangled herself, grabbed her purse, and headed for her interview.
BERNADETTE’S BAKERY WAS in a squat, yellow building off the main strip of Fishtown’s thriving, eclectic neighborhood. Pushing through the heavy front door, Lizzie was hit by the familiar smell of sugar and bread and comfort, the constant perfume of her job. She could get high off the sweetness.
But a quick glance around the small shop showed a bakery that looked … not great.
Three small tables were crammed in, and a huge but nearly empty pastry case sat by the register. The menu was written in fading chalk on the back wall, smudged in multiple spots. The small glimpse she caught of the back kitchen through the swinging door window looked similarly shoddy.
Whatever.
Lizzie could make due working under a bridge with a trash can fire if it meant she was earning wages.
A tall, older woman stepped out from the kitchen, the mass of her frizzy gray hair nearly touching both sides of the doorway. She pulled off her yellow apron, revealing a billowy top and a long skirt. She had thick glasses and a sharp nose that she looked down as she evaluated Lizzie.
“Hi,” Lizzie said at last. Something about the woman was both beautiful and terrifying. “I’m Lizzie. I’m here for the job interview.”
Bernadette nodded, eyeing Lizzie closely for a long moment before saying, “Hello. I’d had a feeling our auras would be complementary. Let’s take a seat and get to it.”
She swept toward the closest table, her multicolored skirt like a fluffy cloud around her ankles.
“My … my aura? You can see my aura?” Lizzie asked, taking the seat opposite Bernadette.
Bernadette nodded.
“What color is it?” Lizzie asked, her voice rising and eyes widening with excitement.
“Magenta,” Bernadette said, pulling a pencil from behind her ear and a notepad from her skirt pocket. “You have strong blue emissions indicating your creativity, but it’s mixed with a vibrant red, which tells me you have a deep connection with the physical world.”
“No arguing with that,” Lizzie said with a lascivious wink. Bernadette blinked at her.
“The colors combine for your magenta emission, indicating you are high-energy and innovative in taking physical substances and stretching them to new forms.”
“No shit?” Lizzie said, leaning back in her chair. “That’s so cool. What color is yours?”
Bernadette tilted her head to the side, studying Lizzie for a moment before saying, “Indigo. Shall we proceed with the interview?”
Lizzie nodded, making a mental note to research the hell out of auras when she got home.
Bernadette asked Lizzie a few standard questions about availability and experience, and Lizzie went into her strengths, discussing her skills with innovative frostings and clever takes on traditional pastry shapes and designs.
The interview was going surprisingly well. Lizzie tended to overshare or say something profane or obnoxious when she got excited talking, which she always did when it came to baking, but she and Bernadette found an easy flow. The truth was, it was the one thing in the world Lizzie really believed she was good at. She ditched hobbies at an extraordinary speed, throwing herself into them like a maniac of enjoyment and burning out of interest just as fast if she wasn’t instantly an expert at it.
Something about baking—the measuring, mixing, experimenting—allowed her energy to hyper-focus on the task and provided an outlet for her hands to work and shape and play for hours of enjoyment.
Lizzie described her most recent large undertaking—a “cake” for a beach-themed wedding that was more like an art installation. The display covered a large table made to look like the shore, sugary sand and small cakes decorated so realistically like shells and driftwood that some guests were nervous to try them.
Bernadette paused the conversation, letting the silence grow as she eyed Lizzie like she was deciding how much she could trust her. Lizzie blinked back.
“If I hypothetically told you I ran a discreet business on the side, what would you say?” Bernadette finally said, steepling her fingers in front of her.
Lizzie’s eyes flicked around the shop, trying to look thoughtful when she was really just confused about whatever the hell the eccentric old woman was talking about. Her eyes landed on a plate of brownies sitting on the counter.
“Oh.” Lizzie nodded wisely. “Pot. I’m cool with it, Bernadette. I’m no narc,” she said, shooting her a wink.
“What? No,” Bernadette said, shaking her head. “I’m not selling weed brownies. It’s something else.”
“What?” Lizzie asked, leaning closer, a fun thrill of suspense chasing down her spine.
“I … hypothetically, might sell”—Bernadette looked over both shoulders despite her and Lizzie being the only ones in the shop—“erotic pastries under the table.”
Lizzie was silent for a solid minute, letting that phrase loop around in her mind, before she erupted in laughter. “I—hypothetically—could never think of a job I was better suited for. So you sell … what? Penis cakes?”
Bernadette looked offended. “It’s not just cock and balls, my dear. These are artistic pieces made with the highest degree of craftsmanship. And the phallic form is so overdone. I specialize in yonic work.”
Lizzie gave Bernadette a clueless look.
“Vulvas,” she said with a wave of her hand.
Lizzie’s eyebrows shot up, her lips pursing in interest. “I’m listening.”
“Vulvas, breasts, buttocks … all represented in the baked form. Is this work you’d be comfortable doing?”
“Comfortable? Oh, Bernadette, I’ve been whipping up sexually suggestive croissants and tarts for years. I don’t think there’s a job I could be more comfortable doing.”
“Mind you, these are for our private orders. We have to project a more … conventional front for our day-to-day customers.”
Lizzie looked around the empty shop, wondering how many of those she would actually be dealing with. “I understand, but maybe if you forced more people to eat pussy-shaped croustades, they’d be less hesitant to eat pussy in other scenarios.”
Bernadette’s eyes went wide, then she pursed her lips, looking off like she was contemplating the truth in that.
“Who’s your main, uh, clientele?”
Bernadette looked a bit sheepish for a second. “Primarily my wife and I’s friends and any word of mouth they generate. I’m starting to get more requests than I can track alone, but not enough to base the business off it.”
“Would you like to base the business off it?”
Bernadette thought for a moment. “I’d like to sell my products to anyone interested without having my whole shop shut down by angry prudes,” she said at last, giving a brisk nod.
Lizzie couldn’t help but smile. “Maybe I could help you?”
“How so?” Bernadette asked, tilting her head as she studied Lizzie.
“I don’t know, get some hype on Instagram? TikTok? Make a website? I think if we work on a set menu, things that are clever without being gratuitous, we could maybe generate a pretty solid client base. Especially in this area,” Lizzie said, referring to Fishtown’s more eccentric tastes. “We could start with online orders, and if they’re popular, we can slowly incorporate them into the shop? Not to take away from your, uh, other offerings.” Lizzie glanced at the desolate pastry display. Bernadette’s eyes lingered there too. “This could be amazing. Celebrate the human body, be creative and fun with it … or it could be a disaster. Who knows. But I’m willing to do whatever you need of me.”
Bernadette continued to stare at the glass display, lost in her thoughts. After a moment, she let out a gentle humming noise, turning back to Lizzie.
“When can you start?”