Summer Heacock - The Awkward Path To Getting Lucky

“We sold out of the cranberry scones again,” Shannon says, taking a sinful sip of coffee. Shannon is the only one of our group who has taken the leap into the big leagues of the adult world. She’s been married for a decade and has two tiny little humans she actually created and manages to keep alive and everything.

Of the four of us, I imagine she sleeps the least.

“Should we make more tomorrow?” she asks.

“Maybe a couple?” I shrug. “I’d say no more than six. Then reevaluate.”

Butter nods. “I agree.” She picks up a chunk of blue fondant off the station and starts rolling it out. “And we definitely need to have another pan of brownies ready to go first thing in the morning from now on. This is the second week straight we’ve run out well before the end of rush.”

“Noted. Liz, how’s the Guffman cake coming?” Shannon says, scanning down her little scratch pad to-do list.

Liz makes a face and looks over at the cooling racks, where six layers of cake sit with fondant setting. “I’m about to assemble and then start the second-stage decorations. I kind of hate this cake.”

The Guffmans are avid followers of the Green Bay Packers, so for their wedding this coming Saturday, they requested a six-tier cake with a giant Cheesehead thing on it. It’s all bright green and yellow and orange colors, and there isn’t a single candy pearl to be found anywhere. It is, in fact, Liz’s worst nightmare in cake form.

“I can help with it!” Butter volunteers happily. Liz gives a small but appreciative smile.

“Don’t you have that fortieth anniversary cake to do next?” I ask Liz. “All covered in intricate stencils and edible rhinestones? Which I honestly had no idea were even a thing until you started working here.”

Liz perks right up. “Yes! I forgot about that order.”

I raise my mug. “See? There’s a light at the end of your Cheesehead tunnel.”

Shannon turns to me. “Where are you on the Sadie Hawkins order?”

We were contracted by a local middle school to provide tasty treats for their upcoming dance. Gesturing to the cooling racks in the back, I say, “The first hundred are cooling, I’ll start the rest now, and if I go all day, I should have all five hundred decorated long before it’s time to head home.”

“All right,” Shannon says. “Butter, you’re going to help Liz, and you’ll be working on the triplets’ smash cakes, yes?” Butter nods. “Great. And I’ll be restocking the front display case and working on the rest of the orders for tomorrow. I’ll also be doing a trial run of the personal pies so we can test those out before we launch them next week. Later today I’ll go and make our deliveries. Also, the Capuzo order is going out this afternoon, so everyone gird things.”

I roll my eyes. Mr. Capuzo is a semi-regular customer who comes in every few months and is either incredibly pleased with our services or pitches a raging holy fit about the weirdest things. Once he bought all the oatmeal raisin cookies in our display case, then came stomping back in five minutes later because he’d thought the raisins were chocolate chips. Never mind the fact that the cookies were clearly labeled—he still considered the raisins to be a “betrayal.”

I so would not have sex with Mr. Capuzo.

“Not it!” Butter calls out. “I’m still not over his meltdown from when the strawberry short-cuppies didn’t have as much filling as he thought they should. If I have to wait on him, I’ll cry.”

Shannon grins. “I’ll take him.”

“The hell you will.” I snort. “Last time you dealt with a jerky customer, you flung a cupcake at him.”

“It slipped,” she says, casually flipping through the papers in her hand.

“It slipped a good five feet and landed with surprising precision on his chest,” I correct her. “We had to pay for his dry cleaning. And Mr. Capuzo is too old to have you throw baked goods at his face—or his face through a window—so no, I will take the Capuzo when he comes in.”

Liz looks moderately terrified. Shannon smiles. “Kat is our Mouth,” she explains. “Butter cries, I throw things, Kat keeps us from getting sued.” Liz considers this and shrugs with apparent satisfaction. Shannon looks back at her list. “Okay. Is everybody good? Meeting over?”

“Actually, really quick,” Butter says, “I was thinking about doing the coconut cuppie with pineapple curd and candied bacon as the headliner tomorrow.” She can turn damn near anything edible into a gourmet cuppie. “When you’re out on deliveries, could you pick up some supplies?”

“God, yes,” Shannon agrees with an enthusiastic nod. “I think that’s my favorite of your recipes. Could you make an extra half dozen so I can take them home to Joe and the kids? They love those so much.”

Butter beams. “Sure!” she says. I foresee that extra batch getting the royal edible glitter treatment.

Looking around the shop, Shannon asks, “Is that everything?”

Butter and Liz nod. Shannon takes in a deep breath, smiles and sets her pad down. She takes another glorious sip of coffee.

“Oh, hey,” I add casually. “There is one thing.”

It’s very slight, but I swear I see her wince. “What did I forget? Is there another order?” She starts pulling invoices off the stack on her workstation and flipping through them.

I shake my head. “No, it’s nothing like that.”

Shannon sets the papers down and lets out a gust of air. “Okay, good. What’s up?” she asks, lifting her coffee mug to her lips again.

“My vagina is broken and Ryan and I haven’t had sex in almost two years and it’s really distracting. Help.” A strangled, rupturing sound escapes from Shannon, and suddenly it’s raining coffee in the kitchen.

2

“Wait...” Butter asks, her eyes aghast. “What do you mean your vagina’s broken? How do you break a vagina?”

Liz, looking horrified, leans toward me and whispers, “Did you fall on it or something?”

I blink at her. “No. No, I didn’t fall on it.” Shaking my head, I answer, “It’s a disorder. Well, that’s what my doctor said two years ago, anyway.”

Shannon stops mopping the spit coffee off her station and points her towel at me. “Is it vulvodynia? Vaginismus? Vaginitis?”

My jaw flops to my chest. “Vaginismus. How could you possibly know that?”

She barely restrains an eye-roll as she resumes wiping down the coffee-splattered counter. “Oh my god, when you said your vagina was broken, I thought it was something like cancer, you dork.” She moves down the station and pushes her towel across the coffee-splattered floor. “I went through vaginismus after Heidi was born.”

Butter wheels around. “Wait! Your vagina is broken, too?”

“It’s been broken for seven years?” A very unfortunate whimper escapes me.

She looks up at us with that semi-irritating mom expression she uses when we push her patience a smidgen too far. “Guys. No. I was having trouble for a few months after I had Heidi, and the doctor said it was vaginismus. So I went to a physical therapist for maybe three months, did the rest of the therapy at home and I haven’t really had any issues since.”

I’m gaping at her. “How did I not know about this?”

Shannon grins. “Sorry. Next time one of my reproductive parts shorts out, I’ll be sure to bring it up at a staff meeting.”

I stick my tongue out at her.

“Wait,” Butter interrupts. “Physical therapists...for your...vagina?”

“Yes.”

“But...” She blinks at me, and then at Shannon. “For your vagina.”

Shannon lets out a deep sigh. “Yes.”

“They have those?” Liz squeaks. Shannon nods. “Around here?” She nods again.