"You know you have to make a choice. Your parent's dream or yours."
For a good portion of her life, Bentley's mind was made up. She was going to follow in her parent's footsteps and continue the family business, but something changed along the way...
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July 1st, 1981
Houston, Texas
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C'mon...work with me here...
A dribble of sweat trailed my jawline as I carefully nudged the open bag of flour toward the edge of a high shelf. Even standing on a chair with one knee propped on the countertop, the bag of flour was still too far for a good grip. Why is it even up so high? This is why I don't ask Angel to put away the groceries...
The cheap A/C made the air in the cramped kitchen thick with humidity. It didn't help that we needed to use the oven, which made it unbearable. The cheap white fan in the corner creaked as it turned, channeling wind to different sides of the space.
When I finally managed to work the bag into my sweaty palms, the front doorbell went off. Without attention and a proper grip, it fell onto the counter between my knees, launching a pale dust cloud into the air and onto my apron, face, and hair.
Suppressing the urge to release a rainbow of curses, I snatched a towel from under the sink and ran the faucet. A knock on the doorframe reminded me that someone had entered the building and caused my flour shower. Her familiar giggles told me I didn't need to turn around to know who it was.
"Oh, Bee," she breathed between giggles. "how this happen, hm?" Angel crossed the small space, still snickering to herself, and grabbed a towel to put under the running water.
"Well, if you must know, the bag of flour decided that instead of stayin' put in my hands it woulda been better if it dropped onto the counter. Naturally, physics ran its course," I gestured to my powdery appearance.
"It's like frosting 'n flour are attracted to ya. Always findin' themselves on yo' clothes or face one way or another." Angel shook her head with a chuckle and wiped the flour from my face with the damp towel. I closed my eyes and relaxed under my best friend's cleaning treatment.
Angel—short for Angelic—and I go way back to kindergarten. I remember exchanging our desserts every Monday at our little cafeteria table during lunch. She was always dressed with the cutest braids and the newest outfits. Her barrettes always matched her dress, never without her Mary Janes and lacy socks.
We share a passion for baking and confections, but she more so enjoyed the business side of things. So, during our lunch exchange, we agreed we would start our own business together—a cooking show, a cookbook, the whole nine yards. By now, we've grown out of pigtails and Mary Janes into lace fronts and high heels. I miss when we would bake in my parents' kitchen without worrying about the expensively cheap quality of my air conditioning or deadlines.
"You makin' Ms. Carter's cake for her wedding Friday?" Angel returned to surveying my face, ensuring all the flour was cleaned. I nodded as I glanced over my best friend's appearance.
