Chapter 24: The Dented Layer

I turned thirty-one on a Saturday, and I woke up to the smell of burning.

The bed beside me was empty, and the sheet was still warm.

I put on his shirt and followed the smoke down the hall.

Quinton stood in the kitchen in his shirtsleeves, with flour on his forearms and an oven mitt on the wrong hand.

The oven door was open.

A round pan sat on the stovetop, smoking gently.

"Don't come in," he said.

"It's my kitchen."

"It's my kitchen. You said so yourself, in March."

"I said we shared it."

"Then you'll share the responsibility." He lifted the pan with both hands and set it on the rack to cool. "I wanted it to be a surprise."

"It is."

I stopped beside him and looked at the cake.

The first layer had risen on one side and sunk on the other.

The edge had gone dark brown, and the middle was a dent you could have set a teacup in.

"How long did you bake it?" I asked.

"Forty minutes."

"The recipe says twenty-five."

"I wanted to be sure."

I put both hands over my mouth.

My shoulders shook.

"Don't laugh," he said.

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm so happy I can't breathe."

He looked at me, and his face went soft.

He pulled me in against his chest, flour and all, and I laughed into his collar until my eyes ran.

"I have never baked a cake," he said into my hair.

"I know."

"I read the chapter on eggs three times."

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