For the Foodies

***

Wherever you are, whomever you’re with, be messy.

***

I do not have nerves of steel. My hand shakes as I prepare to knock on Jasper’s apartment door. Anxiety coats me like a thin blanket and my palms go sweaty, making me far more klutzy than usual. Attempting to hold my paper bag filled with baking supplies, along with my purse—a task most people would have no issue with—is not working, and I drop everything at my feet.

“Crap!” I heard something crack. Must’ve been the eggs. Hopefully not all of them.

The door opens as I’m bending down—I fear at the oddest, most unattractive angle imaginable—and I’m momentarily blinded by the contrast of bright apartment to dark, gloomy hallway.

“Hey, Betty.”

I laugh in my awkward way, trying to collect my mess while looking up at Jasper. I swear it’s right out of the movies: the girl’s gorgeous crush appears, surrounded by golden sun rays, majestic presence, and perfect hair. I can even hear the angel’s Ahhhh in their Acapella chorus.

Why me?

Because I’m the underdog. Pitiful and goofy. Who never gets the guy. The universe more often than not gives me the big: Give up, girlie!

“Need some help?”

Jasper’s smile directed my way makes me feel like a deer in headlights. His full lips thin, the corners of his mouth stretch upward, and the collected effect reaches his eyes. I imagine I could fall into them, which is probably why I can’t form anything more than a word-salad. If this tall, handsome pick of the male species was not aware of my social quirks after almost a semester together in our, I’m-a-working-adult-but-needed-a-hobby, intermediate cooking class, he has to be certain of it now.

“Let me get that.”

Jasper grabs my supplies with ease in one hand while he assists me in the other. I find myself standing then, nervously pushing my long hair behind an ear. I scold myself how I didn’t opt for a bun and hairspray, and hope I have the basic scrunchy or hairband in my purse.

“You’ve got egg on you.”

My eyes pop wide. I am mortified. It doesn’t matter that it’s silly to feel this way. It just is. The anxiety around me tightens and I still can’t speak.

“But no worries. I’ve got eggs—”

Yes, I think, you’ve got two of them I’d like to fondle, and I can only flutter my eyelashes and hope Jasper can’t read minds.

“So long as you remembered the sugar, cause I used mine up practicing the French Meringue.”

I’ve got some sugar for you.

I actually stomp my foot. Shut up brain! I swear my internal monologue has it in for me and I have to go to great lengths to keep it in check. My boot had sounded more like I was kicking snow away, except it isn’t winter, and they are knee-highs.

Head. Palm. I am too hot for this man....

How To Bake A Cake