How to Eat a Cupcake by Meg Donohue Page A

haven’t lived in this city in ten years so I probably shouldn’t assume you know anything about the neighborhood. The Mission is filled with trendy new restaurants and shops. More so than some of the older neighborhood residents would like, in fact. The hipsters, the dot-commers, the overpriced-baked-goods eaters—that’s where they live. And if they don’t live there, then they go there for cutting-edge cuisine. It’s a culinary hotspot— the place to open a cupcakery.”
    Her argument made some sense. I’d heard about the positive changes that had been happening for years in the Mission, though admittedly I wasn’t sure I’d ever been to the neighborhood. I reminded myself that this was Annie’s business; I would reenter my old, more conventional—and lucrative—life come May and she would be left running the cupcakery on her own. I held up my hands. “I’m not saying no. Let me just research the market a little more, and in the meantime we can check out what sort of spaces are available and see what the rent looks like. If it makes sense, we’ll move forward. Okay?”
    Annie sat back against the upholstered bench, looking a little surprised that I was so easily swayed. “Okay.”
    â€œCrisis number one averted.” That false chipper ring had edged its way back into my voice. “Next item on the agenda is nailing down a timeline. I know it’s tough to say without a space in mind, but if we start small, I think we can push ourselves to get this business up and running in three months.”
    â€œThree months!” Annie said. “Really? But there’s so much to do.”
    I shrugged. “You’d be surprised how fast money can make people move.”
    Annie was biting into a second macaroon as I spoke and now slowly lowered the cookie to the table. Her eyes narrowed. “Did you really just say that?”
    â€œWhat?” I asked, my mind racing back over what I’d said. The thing about money? It was a throwaway comment. Did she have to dissect everything?
    â€œThat I’d be surprised how fast money can make people move?” she said. “Please tell me you realize how that sounds.”
    Oh, enough, already! This meeting was beginning to exhaust me. “I’m sorry if that statement makes you uncomfortable,” I said evenly. “Frankly, I thought it was only us WASPs who were supposed to be patently incapable of discussing money.”
    â€œI can discuss money ,” Annie spat. “It’s your sense of entitlement that turns my stomach.”
    My mouth dropped. “Annie! Why must you act so mean?”
    â€œProbably,” she said, “for the exact opposite of the reason that you act nice: it’s hard for me to be fake.”
    â€œNo! I act nice because, because,” I sputtered, “because I am nice! But you—you’re not a mean person. I know you’re not. So I’d really like to know why you act like you are.”
    She shrugged. “I’m the kind of person who doesn’t sugarcoat anything but cake.” I got the distinct sense that she was enjoying seeing me riled up. “Anyway, I think the question of whether or not you’re a nice person is still very much up for debate.”
    For the first time since Annie had walked in the door, I allowed silence to fill the room. It seemed clear that any attempt to move forward would have to come from me. I thought back to what had happened between us all those years ago, a series of events that I still had trouble remembering as anything more than one minor misunderstanding after another toppling against each other like dominoes. And, anyway, in the end, what harm had been done? Annie had graduated from Devon and eventually gone to Cal just as she’d wanted. Still, it was clear she needed some coddling.
    â€œAnnie,” I said at last, placing my hands on the table. My three-karat