Never Getting Back Together

TWELVE

My table is by far the most Instagram-worthy setup in the park. The iridescent, rose-colored tablecloth shimmers in the sunlight that filters through the canopy of leaves overhead. I arranged gold paper plates in diagonal lines across the table. Each plate has one regular and one AIP cookie, which I wrapped in cellophane and secured with a sparkly ribbon. I propped up a pink, felt letter board that reads, 'Can you tell which cookie is sugar-free?' I even put out a couple vases of peonies that I clipped from Betty's garden.

I've taken plenty of pictures to include with my grant application, but I don't think they'll do much to sway the judges' opinions. I hoped to take videos of people sampling both cookies and declaring the sugar-free version the better of the two. But the odds of that happening are looking slimmer by the second.

Kallie Peters was my first customer. She took one bite of the scorched AIP cookie and immediately started coughing. Nearly lighting them on fire earlier must have dried them out. Thankfully, Giselle had the presence of mind to rush over with a water bottle before Kallie legit choked.

Word must have spread—as it's been known to do here in Rosedale. Not one person has stopped by my table in the past hour unless you count Liv and Betty. They devoured a couple of my regular cookies and tried to hype me up, loudly exclaiming over how "utterly delectable" they were. But the rest of the town is carefully avoiding making eye contact with me. Their gazes flick straight from Shirley Nelson's cupcakes on my left to Ty's cannolis on my right.

Shirley's got an unfair advantage, being the owner of the bakery. Her table is brimming with cupcakes decorated to look like the sunflowers in the giant fields that surround Rosedale. The centers are made of chocolate sprinkles, and the frosted, yellow petals are so life-like they're more like a work of art than a dessert. Her line hasn't dwindled since the bake sale started.

To my never-ending irritation, the line at Ty's table is even longer. He didn't put any effort into this. He hasn't laid down so much as a tablecloth, and I know for a fact that his mother, Lucia, made those cannolis. I can smell the mouth-watering fried pastry dough and ricotta filling from here. Lucia's cannolis are unparalleled. I've risked a flare-up more than once for them. If Lucia was here selling them instead of Ty, I'd probably do it again.

I drum my fingers against my thighs and scowl over at him. He passes cannolis to Faris and Amala Reddy. Naturally, he doesn't even have napkins to give them. I roll my eyes. The Reddys don't seem to mind, though. They each take a bite, and their eyes light up like fireflies on a warm summer night. Ty slides a clipboard across the table and hands Amala a pen.

What's that about? I wonder, leaning sideways on my folding chair to hear what he's saying.

"The Bourne Identity was one of the highest-grossing movies of 2002, and I've heard the kissing scenes in Ever After are a little steamy. We have to think about the children." He gestures at the stroller Faris has been pushing through the park.

I gasp so hard I choke on my own saliva. Sputtering and coughing, my eyes water as I attempt to suck in air. I cannot believe him. He's using his mother's cannolis to convince the town to vote for his movie. He's diabolical.

Giselle hustles over with another water. She uncaps the bottle, handing it to me and patting my back as I try to get my breathing under control. "Did you eat one of the cookies?" she asks.

I glare at her with as much heat as I can muster while tears stream down my face. "No, I didn't eat one of the cookies."

"Oh, good." She places a hand to her chest as though relieved. She's wearing a gorgeous, bohemian-style turquoise dress. Her hair is down in beachy waves. She looks like she just stepped out of a Pinterest ad.