Heart Beat Read online

  “Is it okay if I record you?” she asked, as though she hadn’t already recorded the whole process.

  “Of course!” I smiled. “Make sure you tag me so I can repost you,” I winked before returning my attention to her drink.

  It was half the reason anyone came to the café – the opportunity to be posted on my growing account. What had started as an amusing way to make the workday pass faster had quickly taken on a life of its own. Everyone loved my cappuccino designs so much, they began flocking to the café with phones in hand, hoping to be featured on my account.

  Slowly, I poured the steamed milk into the double espresso, tilting the cup just right. When the foam began to coat the top, I twirled the cup in my hand. First, to the right and then left. The woman watched with a bright smile as the art came to life. Satisfied with my work, I set her cappuccino on the counter, revealing a bird with three small clouds behind it, a new design I’d only begun sharing recently.

  “Oh my gosh! It’s so beautiful, I don’t even want to drink it!” she squealed as she angled her phone for the best shot.

  “Trust me, it tastes even better,” I boasted before moving to the register. On slow mornings, I ran the café completely alone. It was hard, but I enjoyed the solitude and it kept me busy, which made the time pass quickly.

  “You know what I would love to try? One of those beautiful cakes you make. How can we get one of those? Are they in the back?” her friend piped up. She had bright red hair that reminded me of a fire-themed cake I’d posted recently.

  My passion had shifted in the last year and a half. It was part of the reason I didn’t love my job in the way I used to. I’d always loved baking, using it as a form of therapy to connect with my late mother.

  Of course, I’d taken things to a new extravagance, as I was known to do. Like my mom, I made my batter from scratch, a lesson I remember her sharing. She said anyone could buy a box and follow a few instructions, but baking from scratch took love and patience.

  I always hoped my mother could see how much care and time I put into my cakes, creating intricate designs with the icing, where she simply covered the cake. I’d taken everything she taught me and added to it, as I knew she would want me to do.

  “Are these your designs?” the girl asked when I failed to answer, too wrapped up in my own thoughts. She was looking in the glass display case of desserts the owner of the café had delivered every morning.

  “Sorry about that. No, those aren’t mine,” I could hear the disdain in my voice. That work was nowhere near as accomplished as mine. And they tasted more like cardboard compared to my flavors. “I don’t have a place to sell my cakes. For now, they’re just something I do for fun.”

  “Well, if you ever do decide to offer them for sale, you’ll need a much larger space than this. I can only imagine how many people will be in every day to get their hands on those beautiful cakes. I mean, even your cupcakes are beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like it,” she gushed.

  It was a bittersweet compliment. I knew my online following loved my cake designs. My account had skyrocketed after I began posting them. But I didn’t have an outlet yet, after trying and failing to get hired at the only bakery I wanted to work for.

  If it were my fairy tale to write, I’d have my own bakery, with a café waiting area. Customers would come in and have a latte cupcake with their artful cappuccino. Or maybe, they’d just have an espresso to calm their jitters as they taste-tested the many cake flavors we could use to build their dream wedding cake. I wanted to help people celebrate the best days of their lives, with beautiful desserts that tasted as good as they looked.

  But, for now, it was only a dream. So, I forced a smile as I accepted the woman’s ten-dollar bill, and thanked her profusely when she insisted I accept the change as a tip. It was a normal gesture from my followers. It felt like they wanted to support me in some way. I just hadn’t found a way for them to.

  I saved every one of the tips, though. After years at the café, I had acquired a nice savings account, though I didn’t yet have a plan how to spend it. I never felt like the money was mine to spend, but rather to build something for my dream.

  “Thanks, Charlotte! You are as sweet in person as you are online. Have a great day!” the woman called out on her way to the door. She was the last of the morning rush, giving me a few minutes to catch my breath. After two and a half hours of constantly running from one end of the counter to the other, my feet were ready for the break when the door swung open. The bells hanging at the top of the doorway announced my best friend.

  “You’re right on time,” I smiled, turning to turn on the kettle. It was our daily ritual. She would sneak away from her job for a few minutes to catch up and find a reason to laugh.

  “You’re not going to believe who I ran into,” Jackie rolled her hazel eyes. She was the most dramatic person I’d ever met, the best at telling stories. And as if she knew her strengths, she always had the most random interactions to recount, making the mundane entertaining.

  We’d known each other since elementary school and she was the sister I always wanted. Settling into the seat, I watched as she rolled the sleeves of her white-collared shirt to her elbows, revealing the bronze skin that shimmered in the light. She was absolutely stunning, which was a bit intimidating when we were younger.

  My bone-straight blonde hair was boring compared to Jackie’s gorgeous brown curls that bounced with every step. Noticing my insecurities, she taught me how to style my hair in middle school, using rods that left my hair voluminous and serums that gave me a shine mirroring hers.

  The kettle sounded, announcing the start of girl time, and I arranged our favorite cups on colorful coasters before pouring the steaming water. Reaching for the box of teas, I selected Jackie’s favorite – lavender mint, and a rosella blend for myself. Strangely enough, I rarely drank caffeinated drinks, despite how much I loved creating designs atop cappuccinos.

  “This better be good,” I smirked, sitting beside her at the small table near the window. It allowed me to see anyone walking into the café, in case I needed to jump back into work mode.

  “Do you remember Brian from sixth grade?” Jackie asked, pushing a rebellious curl behind her ear.

  “Sixth grade? I can barely remember what I ate for dinner last night,” I said. She was always challenging me with far-off memories from what felt like a past life.

  “You might be twenty, but you have the memory of a senior citizen,” she teased, lifting her tea bag in and out of the hot water.

  “Not everyone can recite the names of every teacher they’ve ever had. For the record, that’s not normal.”

  It was one of Jackie’s party tricks. One she could not believe I couldn’t match. She always teased me about my memory, but I never revealed the truth. Deep down, I knew I’d chosen to forget parts of my life. It was too difficult to remember how lost and unstable I was after losing my parents. Instead, I liked joking with my bestie, one of the few sources of my stability for as long as I could remember.

  Chapter 2

  FORD

  MY ARMS WERE stiff after two hours crammed between two women on the flight from Minneapolis. When the customer service rep said the only seat left on the plane was a middle seat in the very last row, I didn’t hesitate. I’d spent the better part of four years in that city, and didn’t care to spend an extra night there if I didn’t have to.

  The large Welcome to Cincinnati sign at the bottom of the escalator was a heart-warming sight. Quickly, I reached for my phone to snap a photo, feeling like a tourist instead of a native Cincinnatian returning.

  I never thought I would have to leave the city I had grown up in and loved, but in my career field it became necessary. As an airplane mechanic, I found it nearly impossible to find a job at the Cincinnati airport. Between the union and scarce opportunities, the best option was to relocate to a larger airport. Minneapolis had done that for me four years ago. As a major hub for one of the best national airlines,
there was a massive need in my industry.

  But the second I saw an opening near Cincinnati, I leapt at the opportunity to move back home. Although it was technically located in Kentucky, the Cincinnati/Northern Kentucky International Airport served my hometown and a few smaller cities.

  While, I’d never bash Minneapolis, it had failed to become a second home. The city had given me the opportunity to break into my field, and for that, I was grateful. But that’s where the love stopped. Everything in Minneapolis was out of touch and unfamiliar.

  Someone had lied to the people of Minneapolis and Saint Paul, convincing them they were a big shot city worthy of a red carpet they never put away. There was a party every night, and I don’t mean the type I was used to back home with beers and a dance floor. These were full-out galas, requiring tuxedos and corporate ties.

  It’s not right to pretend it was all a pain. Some of my wildest nights happened in Minneapolis, partying late into the morning with little memory of how poorly I’d behaved. The four years were a bit of a blur in that way. My job was demanding, leading a team of airplane mechanics at one of the busiest airports in the country.

  Every so often, I needed a release – to kick back and find a way to deal with the stress of it all. I was looking forward to the adjustment I knew would come working at a smaller airport. No longer responsible for performing any repairs, I would be managing the entire team of mechanics. The leap in responsibility was matched by a pay increase.

  As a single man with little responsibilities, I’d accumulated a large nest egg without much of a plan of how to use it. My mother always reminded me I could buy property in Cincinnati for a fraction of the price in Minneapolis. But, I never put much thought into it because my salary included a home close to the airport. It was their way of making sure I was never too far in the event of an emergency.

  “Hey… Um, hello,” a young brunette stuttered as I walked into the small convenience store at the end of the terminal.

  I could see she was attracted to me from the way she blushed from the instant our eyes locked. I’d been able to detect the look in women since my adolescence. There was something about the women in Cincinnati that rocked me harder than anywhere else, though. I’d seen a lot of places, but the women in my home state were unmatched.

  “I just need some Tylenol,” I said, hearing the scratchiness in my voice. “And maybe something to drink.”

  She smiled, pointing towards the back of the small store. Following her direction, I made my way to the second aisle. A reflection of myself in the glass storefront showed I looked as tired as I felt. After a night of packing, I hadn’t shaved or even brushed my hair before boarding the flight.

  My beard was longer than usual, dark and bushy like my eyebrows. I would be trimming it before turning up at my mom’s place as she’d never liked my beard. My hair was all over the place, but I didn’t bother to attempt taming it. Rough curls covered my head, like a canopy hiding my dark gray eyes, yearning for a little sleep.

  The store only offered travel-size options, so I selected the small pack of four Tylenol pills before taking a small orange juice from the refrigerated section. Glancing around, I debated adding a pack of cookies or potato chips before deciding against it. I’d been craving the best chili in the world from Skyline Chili – my favorite restaurant since childhood.

  Founded in Cincinnati, it was a must every visit home and I didn’t want to ruin my appetite before I could fill up on the meal I daydreamed about in Minneapolis. They didn’t have Skyline Chili there, probably because it wasn’t fancy enough. But I was happy to be back where you couldn’t drive too far without passing one.

  “Anything else, sir?” the cashier asked when I placed my purchases on the counter.

  “Yeah, I think that’ll be it.”

  “That’ll be eight dollars and forty-six cents,” she announced after tapping on the screen.

  “Eight bucks for a few Tylenol and orange juice? Jeez,” I gasped, reaching into my pocket for a spare ten-dollar bill I’d placed there after tipping my cab driver.

  “Sorry, the airport prices are just so much higher than the normal rates,” she winced.

  “It’s not your fault,” I assured her, placing the bill on the counter.

  “Oh, right,” she said with a look of relief followed by a nervous laughter. “So, are you from here, or just visiting?”

  “Born and raised,” I announced proudly and she beamed with pride only a fellow Ohioan could appreciate.

  “I could tell from the way you walk,” she explained, handing me the change.

  “Really?” I smiled, curious about her determining factors for detecting my lineage. She smiled brightly, flashing a dimple I hadn’t noticed before.

  “Oh, give me a break!” A loud call from behind me caught my attention. “You’ve been back for ten minutes and you’re already flirting. Please, let the young woman do her job!”

  My eyes lit up at the sight of my oldest friend. Marshall hadn’t aged since I met him at tryouts to the junior high basketball team. Back then, his parents had still been alive and he was like the rest of us, carefree with his whole life ahead of him. Now, his shoulders were a bit broader, threatening to bust through the black fabric of his security uniform. He had recently been promoted to head of security for the largest bank downtown. We’d made plans for him to pick me up from the airport so we could properly celebrate both our recent accomplishments.

  “So, you’re going to start embarrassing me already?” I asked, making my way to the door to welcome him.

  After slapping hands, Marshall pulled me in for a hug, wrapping his arms around my back tightly. I could feel he was happy about my return, almost as much as I was. His blond hair was brushed back, a far cry from the ponytail he used to wear in high school. He was mature and clean cut. Stepping back, I felt proud of my friend and how well he had evolved from the young boy I knew so well to the man before me.

  “Thanks,” I called over my shoulder to the cashier, who was visibly disappointed by the abrupt end to our conversation.

  “I see you still have your way with the ladies,” he smirked as we walked through the airport.

  “Are you kidding? She worked at the store,” I argued.

  “Yeah, and she was smitten. Check your wallet, she probably gave you her number with the change,” Marshall continued.

  “Give me a break!”

  “Do you have luggage?” he pointed to baggage claim.

  “Just this,” I reached to tap the small backpack I’d carried on. “Everything else gets here over the next week.”

  “Oh, Mr. Big Shot is having his things personally delivered, huh?”

  “I’m not the one parading through the airport in my new uniform. You’ve got everyone scared you might arrest them at any moment,” I shot back, commenting on his outfit.

  “It is pretty cool, isn’t it?” he couldn’t hide his excitement.

  “It’ll be much cooler if it gets us some free drinks at the bar,” I said and we both laughed.

  Marshall had parked in the visitor lot, a short walk from the terminal. We walked together while catching up on the small details of our new assignments and how our lives would change now that I was back in town. I was eager to see the city, always excited for the new developments on every visit. Seeing everything with my best friend was even better.

  Inhaling deeply as we exited the airport, I filled my lungs with what tasted like a fresh start – the beginning of my life. Everything had been on hold during my years in Minneapolis, but now things were coming together. I could feel it.

  Chapter 3

  CHARLOTTE

  BUTTERCREAM WAS my favorite icing for more than one reason. Sure, the taste was a timeless standout, but when it came to decorating, many other options were too sticky from the additional sugar. Buttercream was soft and malleable, perfect for the new technique I’d grown to love.

  “There’s barely any icing on there,” Jackie argued as I scraped more off th
e cake.

  “It’s called minimal. I told you that,” I glared at her playfully for not paying attention.

  Along with my brother, Jackie had been my audience and taste tester since I first began baking. Sitting on a barstool at my home, she watched me closely, still unimpressed with my new design. I was known for my over-the-top and colorful cake designs. This was nothing like that. There were no decorations, bright colors or even shiny ganache.

  Minimal icing was highlighting the cake, using icing only to fill in where the moist dessert had failed to reach perfect geometry. The angles were more important than the design or color of the icing. I’d been practicing for weeks, finally ready to post one of the cakes featuring the new aesthetic to my Instagram account.

  Carefully, I took a photo of the small lemon cake with vanilla buttercream frosting. Next, I had the larger carrot cake with dark chocolate hazelnut icing with finely crushed hazelnuts forming a small flower on top. It was a new take on the traditional cake, ditching the cream cheese topping for something a bit more decadent. And the colors looked exceptionally well paired together.

  “I really like this one,” Jackie smiled as my technique began to take effect. It was artistic without going over the top.

  “It’s nice, right?” I asked, though I wasn’t really paying her attention. Squinting, I looked for any detail out of place as I slowly turned the cake while adding a thin layer of icing on the round shape.

  “We have got to get you out of that café and over to the bakery with me,” she began the constant discussion I wished could finally take a little break.

  Jackie worked in the marketing and administration department of the bakery I dreamed of working for. She knew how badly I wanted to quit my job at the café, though I had never told anyone else. I’d even kept the dream from my brother, who would move heaven and earth for me, and so I tried my best to shield him from anything he had no control over.