Copyright ©2026 Marteeka Karland

Juniper

The sad little grocery store cake sitting on my counter summed up my life right now. I made cakes for a living, so I knew exactly what I was looking at. Shortening-based buttercream, whipped too fast so it held those little air pockets that collapsed if you pressed a finger in. Red gel piping simply said “Happy Birthday” and skipped my name entirely, because a name is an upcharge, and, apparently, I wasn’t worth the extra four dollars. Twenty-one candles would’ve cost more too. There were no candles.

That morning I’d spent six hours at my own shop building a dinosaur cake for a five-year-old named Milo. The creation had hand-piped scales on a fondant T-rex while his mom hovered by the register asking if I could make the teeth “less scary, but still cool.” I believed, the whole time I worked, that tonight would be mine. That somebody would finally build me something special for my birthday.

I closed the shop two hours early. Cooked pork chops with the mustard cream sauce that Brett loves so much. I set the good plates from his mother that I was always terrified I’d chip.

He’d come in forty minutes late, jacket still buttoned like he hadn’t decided if he was staying, studying his phone like it held the secrets of the universe. “You would not believe this lake listing,” he said, dropping into his chair, not even glancing my way. “Guy wants two point one for a place that’s basically standing on a septic field. I told him, I said, ‘Gary, I can sell water to a drowning man, but I can’t sell delusion’.” He laughed at his own line. I simply looked at him, trying to talk myself into being cheerful.

I cut into my chop and waited for a gap in his running monologue. “So I made this dinosaur cake today,” I said, “for this kid, Milo, and his mom wanted the teeth less scary but still –”

“Yeah, that reminds me, Gary’s brother-in-law does teeth, actually, orthodontist, and get this –” and he was off again, and I just… let him go on. Because why not? I picked my fork back up and took a bite while he rambled on. He still hadn’t told me happy birthday.

His phone buzzed and he glanced down before turning it over. After a while, it buzzed again.

“Hey,” I said, and I tried to keep it light, “We said no phones tonight. Right?”

He didn’t answer right away as color swept his neck to his face and a flash of annoyance crossed his features. Then he gave me a “sorry for you” smile. “Junie,” he said, setting his fork down carefully. “Can I say something, and I need you to just hear it, not react to it?”

“Um, sure.” My stomach started to roll. I recognized his tone and I knew this would be a twenty-first birthday I’d rather forget.

“You’re a lot,” he said, simply. “I don’t mean that as an insult. You’re needy in a way you probably don’t even realize. Phones-away requests, the whole birthday production, the plates. It’s a lot of ask-for, given we’re barely even in a relationship.” He cleared his throat. “And you’re emotional. Everything’s a whole thing with you. I can’t mention anything without you needing your turn.”

I opened my mouth but couldn’t form words. My throat tightened with emotion, and I could feel tears forming behind my eyes.

“And I’ll be honest,” he continued, “because I think you’d rather I was honest, you’re kind of boring, Junie. Same shop, same recipes, same everything. Your five-year plan is a second oven. I used to think that was cute, but I thought you’d grow out of it once you ran out of money and got a real job. I don’t think it’s cute anymore. I need a woman with a little ambition. I’m going places, and you’re… not. Dinosaur cake? Really, Junie?”

Somewhere deep inside me, a voice was screaming, actually screaming, say something, say anything, throw the water glass, throw a pork chop at him, ask him who’s texting him at eight-fifteen on your birthday, and what came out of my mouth, soft and stupid, was, “The pork chops are getting cold.”

“Juniper. I think we both know this has been coming.”

I looked down at my plate so he wouldn’t see my eyes. I didn’t trust what my face was doing. No way was I going to give him the satisfaction. I forced the smallest shrug I could manage.

He pushed his chair back, slow and deliberate, like he wanted me to watch every little thing. “Look, Junie, you’re a great girl. You really are. But we’re just not… compatible.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “It’s not the end of the world. You’ll land on your feet. I mean, you already have your little cake shop, right?”

Wow. My little cake shop. The business I’d thrown every ounce of blood, sweat, and tears I had into. The fact was, I cleared more with my “little cake shop” than he made with his real estate ventures. I suspected it was the same smarmy personality I initially fell for. Unlike me, apparently his clients knew how to cut their losses and get the fuck out of Dodge.

“I guess so,” I said, because what else was there? I stabbed a piece of pork chop and chewed it, even though I could barely swallow, doing my best to act as if none of this had any effect on me.

His phone buzzed again. He actually reached for it this time. “I’m going to head out. I’ve got to call Gary back before he does something stupid on that listing.” He didn’t even look at me. Just stood up, fixed his jacket, and checked his hair in the microwave door reflection. “I’ll send someone to get my stuff later.” The door clicked shut behind him as he left.

I went to the counter where the little birthday cake rested when the sticker on the side caught my attention. The damned thing was on clearance! He’d bought me a generic birthday cake on clearance because it had passed its freshness date.

For a minute I just stood there, stomach clenched tight in the heavy silence. Anger was slow in coming. Even when it did the feeling was directed more at myself than Brett. I chose to stay with him for whatever reason I had at any given time. So as much as Brett was a bastard, this disastrous birthday was as much my fault as it was his. I should never have agreed to let him move in with me. My only excuse is I was young and bought all his flattering.

We’d been together for two and a half years. I was right out of high school and just taking over my grandmother’s bakery after her sudden death. Brett had helped me through one of the most difficult times in my life, but I suspected now he’d taken up with me because I was an easy target. After all, he’d been living rent-free in what had been my grandmother’s apartment since a month or so after we met.

The window over the sink stared back at me. This was my twenty-first birthday, Goddamnit! What did one do on their twenty-first birthday? Get schnozzled and burn the world down. At least I’d burn down my old life. Then I could rise like a phoenix from the ashes. Or something.

I pushed away from the sink and headed to my bedroom. Going to the closet, I pulled out the red dress I’d bought especially for tonight. The red was probably too bright, but I didn’t want subtle. I wanted the color and all the lovely brightness and chaos it might cause under the right circumstances.

I showered and did my hair and makeup before slipping the silky dress over my head, letting it settle over my hips to brush against the middle of my thighs. I zipped up the back, then smoothed the sleeveless garment over my curves. I let my hand run down my arm, tracing the small, faded burn scars from my childhood. Brett said I should get them lasered — so I wouldn’t be reminded of my broken childhood. I suspected the real reason he wanted rid of them was because they didn’t fit in with his image of what he wanted me to be. Well, fuck that shit.

The red lipstick came last. Again, I’d chosen it specially to match the dress. I drew it on slowly, even though my hand shook a little. Lipstick had always been my armor. I had nicely shaped lips. They were my best feature, in my opinion. The dramatic color only enhanced them. I smiled into the mirror, wide and mean, red as a warning label.

I started to slide my feet into the Fuck Me heels I’d purchased — again, specifically for this dress. Then I caught a glimpse of my motorcycle boots. I’d bought them when Brett decided he wanted to get a motorcycle. He’d taken me on exactly one ride, saying I didn’t know how to ride with him and I would get us both killed if I moved the wrong way. He’d never bothered to tell me what exactly I was doing wrong, so fuck him anyway. On a whim, I stuffed my feet into the boots and took a look at myself in the mirror. I didn’t quite look like Alice from Resident Evil, but it was close enough I’d take it.

Throttle was less than a mile away. The bar was a known roughneck place, but any damage caused by patrons always seemed to be contained to the property itself and didn’t spill over into nearby neighborhoods. Though it had a questionable reputation, I’d always wanted to go, thinking living on the wild side held just the appeal I wanted.