I open my mouth to deflect. To make a joke, change the subject, perform my way out of this conversation the way I perform my way out of everything. But Toby is looking at me with those steady brown eyes behind his glasses and I can't.
"Because everything I know about love is performance." It comes out raw and ugly and I hate the sound of it. "Our parents performed a marriage for years. They screamed at each other and cheated on each other and made up and pretended everything was fine over breakfast and called that love. Dad had a different girlfriend every few months and told them all they were special. Mom did the same thing. And I watched that my entire childhood and learned that love is a thing you perform for an audience, not a thing you actually feel."
Toby doesn't interrupt. He pulls out a kitchen chair and sits down and waits.
"I perform interest in everyone I meet. Every guy I've slept with, every date I've gone on — it's a performance. The flirting, the charm, the making people feel special. I'm good at it because I learned from the best. Two people who spent years pretending to love each other and then pretending to love everyone after." I'm pacing now, circling the kitchen island, hands in my hair. "And when Vaughn looks at me and says he sees the real me, I panic. Because what if there IS no real me? What if the performance is all there is? What if I peel back all the layers and underneath it's just — nothing? An empty kitchen. No recipe. Just a guy who knows how to fake every flavor but doesn't have one of his own."
"Robin—"
"And what if I let him in and he figures that out? What if he sees the real me and the real me is boring or broken or not enough? What if—"
"Robin." Toby stands up and crosses the kitchen and puts both hands on my shoulders, stopping the pacing. "Listen to me."
I stop. My eyes are burning. I will not cry. I'm twenty-eight years old and I'm standing in a kitchen full of cupcakes and I will not cry.
"The caring is real," Toby says. "The way you take care of everyone? Real. You drove me to the library at six AM when my car broke down and never complained once. You stress-baked a cake the night I got lost in the storm because you were worried. You make themed treats for story hour every week — not because anyone asked you to, not because you get paid for it, butbecause you know the kids love them. That's not performance. That's you."
"That's just—"
"It's not 'just' anything. The baking is real. You don't bake for people because you're performing love. You bake because it IS love. It's the language you found when the one your parents taught you turned out to be garbage." He shakes me gently. "You made seven batches of Vaughn's favorite flavor today. You weren't recipe testing. You were loving him in the only language you trust."
I look at the cupcakes. Rows and rows of them, golden and perfect, each one frosted with the careful precision I bring to everything I make. Vanilla bean. Brown butter. Vaughn's favorites.
I wasn't recipe testing.
"Oh god," I say.
"Yeah." Toby almost smiles.
"I'm in love with him."
"I know."
"Toby, I'm in LOVE with him. This isn't a crush. This isn't me being flirty. I am in actual love with a man who does crossword puzzles in reading glasses and communicates exclusively in monosyllables and I have been baking him cupcakes ALL DAY like a complete—"
"Like a person in love. Yes." Now Toby is definitely smiling. "It looks good on you."
I sink into a kitchen chair. Put my head on the table. The wood is cool against my forehead and smells like vanilla extract. "What do I do?"
"You go to the bar tonight. You bring the cupcakes. You stop avoiding him."
"I can't just show up with cupcakes. That's — he'll know."
"Robin. He already knows. He told you he sees the real you. He drove in the middle of the night to rescue you from a bad date. He turned into a lion and kept you warm. He knows."
"Then why didn't he say anything? At the door? When I said it didn't mean anything?"
"Because you told him it didn't mean anything and he respected that. That's what good people do. They don't push past your boundaries even when your boundaries are stupid." Toby pulls out his phone. "I'm texting Knox that we're coming to the bar tonight. You're going to shower, put on something that isn't covered in flour, bring these cupcakes, and be a human person in Vaughn's vicinity. That's all. You don't have to confess anything. You don't have to be perfect. You just have to show up."
"Showing up is the hardest part."
"I know." His voice goes soft. "I showed up at that bar in a rainstorm wearing a wet cat cardigan and Knox decided I was his. Sometimes showing up is the whole thing."
I lift my head from the table. "What if I mess it up?"
"You will. Vaughn will too. That's what relationships are — two people messing up and choosing each other anyway. Your parents never taught you that part because they never did it."
I look at the cupcakes again. Seven batches. Six hours. Vaughn's favorites, made with trembling hands and too much love and not enough sense.