A Little Bite of Magic Goes a Long Way (BxB)

12 - Matt

After Ben left, I spent a good half-hour wallowing in guilt. The cupcakes were consigned to the bin, where they belonged, which was a shame because they were both delicious and adorable, but, as I reminded myself sadly as their little paw-print patterned buttercream tops smooshed together in the trash, they were also dangerously enchanted.

On the one hand, I couldn't help feeling a little bit proud of myself (I'd done magick!), but on the other, I wished I'd never seen that lemon-cake recipe and thought of Ben. 

At last, I picked myself up, cleared away the remains of my favorite mug, washed my face, and realized I was late for work.

Since being slightly more late seemed hardly to matter at that point, I called Paul at the café and asked if he'd be okay handling the first shift alone. He was my newest employee, but he'd learned the ropes fast, and I had confidence in his sound judgement—at least when it came to the café. His choice of eyeshadow (he tended to gravitate towards peacock iridescence) was another matter.

"Course I can, sugar," he'd assured me, having picked up on something a little watery in my voice. "You take your time. Jus' make sure you're here by the time I get off—Ruby Larocque waits for no man."

Paul was a sweetheart, but his drag persona—Ruby—was actually a little terrifying. Fun and gorgeous (Paul's makeup skills were their own kind of magic) but terrifying.

"I'll be there," I promised. "I just need to...sort a few things out."

Ending that call, I made another.

Ben didn't pick up. I didn't expect him to (he never answers his phone when he's mad) but I left a long message in which I rambled about how sorry I was and tried to explain why I'd done what I'd done. Then I sent him a text, because I knew he'd see the preview on his screen whether he opened his messages or not.

I typed it out—

I'm sorry
I love you

—and hit send.

Then, as I stared at my screen, waiting for a reply I didn't really expect to get, I realized my words could be read as "I'm sorry I love you," and typed out another text:

I mean I'm sorry for what I did, and I love you

Then I thought that one looked a bit bland and pedantic, so I sent another with a bunch of crying emojis and hearts, but then that looked whiney and immature, and the hearts didn't convey repentance quite the way I'd meant them to.

A dozen or so attempts later, I finally felt I'd got my meaning across, changed out of my coffee-splattered clothes and into a fresh set, and headed to work.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ 

"You look sadder 'n a seabird in an oil spill," Paul commented when I arrived at the café.

He was behind the counter, arranging the day's selection of treats—for humans on one side and canines on the other (we'd had to make the distinction clearer after people kept ordering the quiche pour chiens and eating it themselves. Honestly, it was perfectly acceptable for human consumption, but it did contain several ingredients that weren't part of most people's diets).

"Is it that obvious?" I asked.

Paul nodded, the overhead lights reflecting off the shiny brown skin of his shaved head. He was in his early forties, just on the padded side of plump, and had a heart big enough for the whole world and just about everybody in it. I'd seen him in the park one day walking about a dozen little wiener-dogs at once, got into a discussion with him about the proper way to make eclairs, and knew I had to hire him. Fortunately for me, he'd been in the market for a job (dog-walking was fun, he'd said, but fell short when it came time to pay the bills).