Page 84 of Sterling Touch
Despite our tight embrace earlier in the week, Cort and I went our separate ways. An alarm on his phone went off and he told me he had to get to a job site. As for me, I’d needed a few minutes to process what I’d learned.
I sat in nature while my mind raced. Like the bees I tend, my head buzzed here, there, and everywhere.
Five days after his explanation, my brain is still swirling.
Other than a quick text from Cort, thanking me for listening to him, it’s been radio silence. I’d like to call bullshiton us being done with one another, but I don’t have the bandwidth to argue with the man.
Instead, I’m baking a cake.
While Sebastian is the true baker in our family, my skill isn’t too bad either. After having peanut butter and honey on whole wheat on more than one occasion lately, I’ve decided to bake a honey lemon cake, which reminds me of Cort’s mother.
Mary Haven is the closest example I have of what a mother should be like, other than living my own experience. As a child, her love and affection toward her children was something I’d longingly stare at, puzzled by it, envious of it.
While mixing all the ingredients for my cake, including three heaping tablespoons of honey, I receive a text.
I want to be stung.
A bee emoji follows the statement, along with a heart. I could interpret that request a million ways, and probably none of them would be correct.
I tap my phone with my knuckle because my hands are messy and stare down at the message.
A week ago, he tells me he’s done.
Days later, he nearly cries.
Men?!
I wash my hands, giving him a second to stew over my initial lack of response.
Is this a booty call?
On another occasion, the response might be flirtatious, even fun, but I’m just not in the mood.
I can’t. I’m baking a cake.
The excuse is almost as weak as washing my hair in order avoid a date with someone or claiming to be in the shower and unable to take a phone call, but the cake is a legitimate reason not to chase Cort and with the irritated energy suddenly buzzing around me I just don’t have patience for him right now.
I’ve given him compassion. I’ve expressed my concern. I’ve forgiven him for past transgressions.
Three little bubbles pop up and then disappear. Three more appear and then vanish.
“Guess that’s that.”
Even if I had been tempted to run to Cort’s house, I promised myself I would never pursue a man, and this baking cake is my sign to stay put.
Stirring up the ingredients again, I pour equal amounts into three separate round tins. I’m making a three-layer cake with raspberry preserves and butter cream frosting in the middle. The secret ingredient is a homemade lemon-honey glaze that soaks into the layers. Fresh raspberries would be a better garnish, but store-bought ones will do as well. The final result will be a naked cake. No frosting on the sides but heaps of it in between the layers.
The timer on the oven goes off thirty-five minutes later and I pull the three tins from the oven, setting them on wire racks. While they cool, I begin the honey glaze which involves heating honey, freshly squeezed lemon juice, and lemon zest. As I pour the concoction into a pot, a knock comes to the front door.
As I’m alone, miles from town, and it’s getting late, I’m not expecting anyone, and there isn’t really a reason for someone to stop by without a specific purpose. So, I hesitate, sneaking a glance through a small gap in the living room curtain before approaching the front door.
With a flourish, I open the door and stare at the man on my front porch.
“Another house call? Need a massage?”
Cort gives me a sheepish smile, twirling a baseball cap in his hand. “I deserve that.”
He’s taken a risk to come to the house again. Hudson could be here. Stone too. Tilting my head to the side, I state, “This is dangerous.”
