The Awkward Path To Getting Lucky

She eyes me suspiciously. “I would feel a lot better about things if you’d at least go talk with one of the therapists,” she says. “You could have an appointment just to discuss applications of the therapy techniques and get support. In fact, you could meet weekly with the therapists just to check in without having them involved in the actual therapy at all. And if, at any time, you feel like you might benefit from their help, you’d already be in the system, and they’d be familiar with your situation.”

I can almost hear Shannon’s commentary on this conversation. Better safe than sorry, she went to an actual therapist, and la-di-da, it all worked out for her in three short months.

I sigh again in defeat. “Fine. I’ll do one appointment, just to talk to them.”

She smiles kindly at me. “You’re pooling all your resources,” she says. “It can’t hurt to have a second line of offense ready if you need it.”

I cross my legs at the ankles and swing them awkwardly. “So, where did we land on a pill, by the way?”

Dr. Snow takes in a slow breath, and I think I can hear her whisper-counting to ten. “Actually, I’m inclined to prescribe you an antianxiety medication to take as needed.”

“I’m not anxious.”

“Are you kidding?”

I frown at her. “Rude.”

“You are a ball of tension right now, Kat.”

I throw my arms up. “I’m not wearing any underwear. My ass is stuck to tissue paper. I’ve got this big assignment at work, and if I don’t figure out how to make perfect little ravens out of frosting, then Butter can’t go see her Noni in Hawaii, Shannon can’t take her kids to meet Mickey Mouse, and Liz can’t go on a honeymoon. And because I don’t think you are fully grasping the severity of the situation—two years, Doc. I don’t need an anxiety pill, I need to get laid.”

“Kat.”

“Fine, I’m anxious.”

“If you’re anxious, so’s your vagina.”

10 (#uab22ad16-deff-5c50-a72b-43434ffdf7d5)

Liz slams a bottle of food dye down on her workstation. “I can’t get the coloring right!” she snaps. It’s not a typical Thursday morning in the shop until someone has a meltdown over food dye. We haven’t even hit the morning rush yet, so we’re meeting our quota early.

“On what?” Shannon asks. Butter is paused with her glitter brush hanging in midair. It’s not often Liz’s voice reaches a decibel above gentle breeze.

“The boob-cake,” Liz whines. “The...well, the parts.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, trying not to laugh. “The nipple?”

Her face flushes a hot pink. “Yes, fine. And the other parts. Who am I modeling this after? Whose boob does this need to look like? I only know what mine look like!”

Butter shrugs, sending a dusting of glitter across the table. “Make it look like mine. I’ve got nice boobs.”

“You do have fantastic boobs,” I agree.

Shannon makes a face. “I never thought about that. Should it look like the woman who ordered it? Is there such a thing as a basic boob?”

“You see?” Liz squeals. “I don’t want to offend someone!”

I’m sitting at the desk working on sketches for the Coopertown Ravens, so I fire up the laptop. “Should I...Google boobs?” My mind floods with the potential search results, and I frown. “Actually, I see no way that could end well, so maybe not.”

Shannon frowns. “We are a business run entirely by women. We have a plethora of boobs right here. Googling boobs is beneath us.”

“Okay, who did the lady who ordered the boob-cake look like the most?” Butter asks.

Shannon studies us all with one hand on her hip and a piping bag in the other. “I guess Kat? Same kind of pale skin, darkish hair. She was taller and had smaller boobs, though.”

“Thanks.”

Butter waves her hand casually, throwing more glitter around. “So just make a boob like Kat’s. There ya go.”

“I don’t know what her boobs look like, Butter,” Liz huffs.

“Show her your boobs, Kat.”

“Butter.” Shannon sighs.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” I say. I stand up, pull my shirt away from my chest and give my ladies a good once-over. I do have to wiggle a little to get the proper lighting. With my hands deep in my neckline and ladies hoisted out of my bra, I hear the front entrance open and scowl. “So help me Odin, if that’s Ben coming in, I’m going to burn this place to the ground.”

Shannon pokes her head around the door and lets out a whoosh of air. “Nope, just customers.” She scurries into the front to handle them, and I get back to my boobs.

“I don’t think he’d dare come back in here when it’s quiet without setting off some sirens before he opens the door,” Butter says, getting back to her glitter-dusting.

“He’d better not,” I grumble. I tuck my dirigibles back into my bra and go to wash my hands. “Even my lack of poise has its limits.” I dry my hands off and join Liz at her station. “Okay, here.” I grab the dye and start whipping up a color of fondant that is as close to the color of my own nipples as I can get. Which is easily the weirdest thing I’ve done this week, cake-wise.

“When I went to culinary school,” Liz says pitifully, “I never thought I’d be trying to match the color of my friends’ boobs.”

“It’s a proud day for us all,” I say, rolling out the fondant. “You can use this for the areola and nipple, I’d think.” Liz makes a horrified squeak. “We’re all adults here, baby. We can say areola. It’s fine.”

“Maybe I should have been a dentist like my mom wanted,” Liz whines and starts shaping the nipple. “It’s not too late to go back to school, right?”

Butter pops her head back up. “It’s funny,” she says, pointing at Liz. “You can’t say vagina, but you’re out having all kinds of about-to-be-newlywed sex with your fiancé, and then there’s Kat, who isn’t bothered by anything anywhere, and she’s the one with the broken special. There’s some unbalanced universe for you.”

She goes back to decorating her cake, and Liz and I stare at each other awkwardly for a moment. Shannon comes back in and asks, “Did we get it sorted? What boob are we going with?”

“Kat’s,” Butter says. “I’ve still got the best boobs, though.”

“She’s not wrong,” I agree. I curtsy and head back over to the sketch pad on my desk. I’ve got a small pile of royal icing next to it that I’m crafting tiny ravens out of. “Shannon, check these out.” I hold up a tiny bird. “I’m not sure how practical they are, but they sure look cool.”

“Ooh,” Shannon coos. “These are amazing!”

“I don’t think I could swing a thousand of them per game, though. They’re stupidly intricate.” I rub my hand over my forehead. “But they’d certainly make us look more badass than the other shops.”

“Maybe they could be for big events? Like for homecoming or playoffs or something.”

I shrug. “Could be.” I take the little candy raven back from her and set him on the desk. He is pretty boss. I’d likely go blind or succumb to arthritis in my thirties if I tried to make them on the regular, though.

But we really need this contract.

The idea of costing my team this deal kills me. It won’t be the flavors or the cake that does it—we rule on taste. Our online reviews always trump the other shops. My assumption is the only other shop that counts as true competition is The Cakery, but this is a college basketball team. Pretention isn’t going to get them as far as bitchin’ little candied ravens would.