How to Eat a Cupcake by Meg Donohue Page B

cushion-cut diamond engagement ring shone brilliantly below the kitchen lights; my fingers, compared to Annie’s, were long and elegant—the hands of an adult. “In reflecting back on those years in high school, I realize I was not always . . . considerate of your feelings. I wasn’t a good friend to you. I see that now. I’m sorry.”
    â€œYou’re sorry for being inconsiderate ? Julia, it’s not like you forgot to RSVP to my sweet sixteen party.” Annie released a sharp little laugh. “We were best friends and then you tried to ruin my life. Cal nearly revoked my acceptance!”
    â€œThat had nothing to do with me!” I refused to be steamrolled into taking responsibility for something that had been completely out of my control.
    â€œJulia,” she said, enunciating my name as though she were speaking to a toddler. “Our senior year. Those rumors. You started them.”
    I sighed. As much as I wanted to end the conversation then and there, I feared doing so would push Annie—and the cupcakery—out of my life forever. “Listen,” I began, trying again. “Senior year went by in a blur for me. I honestly hardly remember it—between working on my Stanford application and my valedictorian speech, I feel like I barely had time to breathe that whole year. But I am truly sorry for what happened and whatever part you think I played in it.”
    Annie’s hair quivered. “Whatever part I think you played in it?” she repeated. “What does what I think have to do with anything? This isn’t some philosophical debate. In this instance, there is one truth, and what either of us thinks about that truth does not alter it from being the truth!”
    Suddenly, as I watched her hands clench into fists and felt the icy charge in her voice, tears sprang to my eyes. I quickly blinked them away, but not before Annie looked down, alarmed. She knew me well enough to know that, unlike her, I wasn’t one to wear my heart on my sleeve. Annie had always, I remembered, cried nearly as easily as she laughed—her emotions had seemed irrepressible when we were kids, every thought and feeling scrolling across her face like sun and shadows across pavement. Now, it seemed almost like we had changed places; I couldn’t control my emotions, and Annie, who used to be so empathetic, eyed me coolly, as though from a distance. What role had I played in her transformation? I shuddered to think.
    â€œI’m not that person,” I said quietly, deciding as I said it that I believed it was true, or at least that I planned to make it true. “Not anymore. I know you don’t believe me now, but I’m going to prove it to you.”
    Annie shook her head and stood from the table. “I can’t do this,” she said flatly.
    I rose with her. “Remember,” I said, wincing at the pleading note in my voice, “my involvement in the business would only be temporary. I just want to help you get it off the ground, and then I promise I’ll be out of your life. I’ll get married and I’ll find another job and you’ll be rid of me. It will all be detailed explicitly in the contract. The cupcakery will be one hundred percent yours after I get married.”
    â€œBut why?” she asked, staring at me. “Why do you want to do this?”
    â€œI just—I think you’re a good investment. You’re so talented, Annie.”
    I could tell she didn’t believe me. “Fine,” she said finally. “But let’s do ourselves a favor and keep our relationship about the cupcakery, okay? We don’t need to be friends—we’re starting a business, not a sorority. I’ll look into spaces in the Mission, you can do whatever research you feel is needed, and we can circle back to compare notes. I’ll see myself out.”
    â€œOkay,” I said, surprised to hear the hurt in my voice.