I laughed as he hugged me to him. The driver honked, and we shuffled toward the car.

“I’ll call you when I’m back, okay?” he said.

“I’ll be there. Get some good work done,” I instructed.

He brushed my hair back from my face and leaned in to kiss me once more.

“Bye, Caroline.”

“Bye, Simon.” I got in the car. And drove away from the fairy tale.

Once I was ensconced in my first-class seat, I had nothing but hours to contemplate. Strike that. I had nothing but hours to sit and stew and grumble. I’d cried in the car on the way to the airport, trying all the while to assure the driver I was fine and not stone-cold crazy. I cried because, well, there was sure as shit a lot of tension in my body, and it had to come out some way. And so it did, through my eyeballs. I was sad, and I was frustrated. Now I was done crying.

I tried to read. I’d stocked up on trashy magazines in the airport in Malaga. As I paged through them, titles of articles jumped out at me:

“How to Know If You’re Having the Best Orgasm You Can Have”

“Kegel Your Way to Multiples”

“New Weight Loss Plan: Orgasm Your Way to a Thinner You!”

Lower Caroline, Brain, Backbone, Heart were all lined up and throwing stones at Nerves, who was trying her best to hide.

I slammed down all my new magazines, throwing them into the seatback in front of me. I grabbed my laptop, powered it up, and put in my earbuds. I’d loaded some movies on before the last flight. I could let my brain escape into a film. Yes, I could do that. I scrolled through some of the movies I had on file…When Harry Met Sally? Nope, not with that scene in the deli. Top Gun? Nope, that scene where they do it, and it’s all lit blue with the breeze blowing through the gauzy curtains? No, too close to my fairy tale.

I found a movie I could safely watch, took three Tylenol PM, and was asleep before Luke learned how to use his lightsaber.

Somewhere between the connection at LaGuardia and the flight across the US, I downshifted from sad to mad. I’d caught up on my sleep, was done with the crying bullshit, and now I was good and mad. And on a plane where pacing was discouraged. I had to stay in my seat and try to rationalize what to do with this anger—and how I was going to live my entire life with no hope of an O. And again, overly dramatic? Perhaps, but with no O in sight, it’s easy to have tunnel vision.

Finally, we touched down at SFO and as I followed the crowd to baggage claim, physically and emotionally exhausted, I looked up into the face of someone I never wanted to see again.

Cory Weinstein. That machine-gun f**ker.

Plastered across the newsstand was his stupid face in a giant ad campaign for Slice o’ Love Pizza Parlors. I stood in front of his giant head, which wore the biggest shit-eating grin as he posed with a giant pepperoni slice, and my anger bubbled over. It now had a face. My anger had a face, and it was a stupid face. I wanted to punch it in the face, but it was only a picture.

Unfortunately, that didn’t stop me.

Not a smart thing to do, have a fit in an international airport. Turns out they frown on that. So after a strongly worded warning from TSA, and a promise that I would never attack a poster again, I packed myself into a cab, stinking of airplane, and went back to my apartment. I kicked my own door this time, and as I threw my bags down, I saw the only two things that could make me smile.

Clive and my KitchenAid.

With a strongly worded meow, he came running to me, actually jumping into my arms and showing the affection he reserved for moments exactly like these. Somehow his little cat brain knew I needed it, and he lavished attention on me as only he could. Shaking his tail and purring incessantly, he butted his head up under my chin and wrapped his big paws around my neck, giving me a tiny kitty hug. Laughing into his fur, I held him close. It was good to be home.

“Did Uncle Euan and Uncle Antonio take good care of you? Huh? Who’s my good boy?” I cooed, dropping him to the floor and grabbing a can of tuna, his treat for behaving while I was gone. Turning now from Clive, who had focused solely on his bowl, my eyes laser-locked on my KitchenAid. I was going to shower, and then I was going to bake. I needed to bake.

An unknown amount of time later—although I will say the sun had set and risen while I floured and stirred—I heard knocking at my door. I’d been baking so long I felt my back creak and squeak as I lifted my head from slicing some of Ina’s Outrageous Brownies. They took a few extra steps, but oh boy, were they worth the trouble. What the hell time was it? I looked around for Clive and didn’t see him.

I shuffled to the door, noticing there was sugar all over the floor, brown and white, and I was performing an accidental soft-shoe dance. There was another knock at the door, more insistent this time.

“Coming!” I shouted, rolling my eyes at the irony. As I raised my hand to open the door, I noticed melted chocolate all over my knuckles. Not one to waste, I gave them a heavenly lick as I opened the door.

There stood Simon, looking exhausted.

“What are you doing here? You’re not supposed to be home until—”

“Not supposed to be home until late tonight, I know. I took an earlier flight.” He pushed past me into my apartment.

As I closed the door and turned to face him, I smoothed out my apron a bit, feeling bits of cookie dough clinging to it. “You took an earlier flight. Why?” I asked, soft-shoeing across the floor to him.

He looked around with an amused grin, noting the piles and piles of cookies, the assorted pies on the windowsills, the aluminum-wrapped bricks of zucchini bread, pumpkin bread, and cranberry orange bread, stacked like the foundation of a house all along the dining table. He grinned once more, then turned to me, picking a raisin off my forehead that I didn’t even know was stuck there.

“Are you gonna tell me why you faked it?”

Chapter Twenty-One

DUMBSTRUCK, I STOOD with my mouth hanging open as he walked farther into the room to contemplate the baked goods. He shuffled through the sugar and paused to swipe a finger through a bowl lined with melted chocolate. I sighed heavily as I returned to the counter to face him and the music as I removed a ball of dough from another bowl where it was rising.

How did he know? How could he tell? I flipped and kneaded the dough—a fluffy, clingy brioche—feeling my face flame. I thought I’d played it pretty well. I chanced a look up at him as he licked the chocolate from his finger, his eyes growing more concerned as my thoughtful kneading turned into punching. I took my frustration out on the brioche dough as I pondered an O-less life. Dammit.