A Pee-Cake of Your Own Baking

"Um, did the owner of the notebook leave a name?" I look up at Rica, not sure what I'm hoping for here. She's been awfully vague. But I feel like I need to prep for this call.

Rica shrugs nonchalantly. "Nah, just scribbled down the number and scurried off. And get this—scrawny, nerdy kid, a little ferrity, I'd say. Kinda like a young Mark Zuckerberg-type." She shudders in mild disgust.

I can't help but frown. This is the complete opposite of what I expected. I'd been sure the notebook belonged to a girl—Sabrina the teenage witch, right? Instead, I'm now staring at a phone number left by some awkward kid with a tech-startup vibe. It's a curveball that leaves me feeling at a loss. Plus, I remember someone matching that description. The boy who grilled me about A.I. taking my job. But he didn't sit where I found the notebook, I'm fairly certain of that.

"Great," I mutter under my breath, my mind whirling.

Rica gives me a sympathetic look, her tone lighter now. "Reuniting someone with their lost property, you're a hero!" She grins at me and winks. "By the way, who was that cute guy I saw you talking to earlier?"

"What cute guy?" I feign ignorance. Of course I know exactly who she means, but I'm not really in the mood to get into the Italian stranger right now. I already have way too much on my plate.

"Oh, please! Don't give me that! I saw you getting all flustered and flirty! I'm not judging, that guy was a full TDH dream." She doesn't wait for me to ask which is just as well because I wasn't gonna, before she adds: "Tall dark and handsome."

I suppress the urge to raise my hand like I'm in school to pose a question of my own, namely: "I'm sorry, have you lost your mind?" Instead I sigh.

"I don't know, he's just some guy I bumped into the other day."

"Uh-huh, uh-huh, I see... and then he came here to flirt some more?" Rica plants her hands on my desk, spreading her long elegant fingers. Today her nails are rainbow colors. "Sooo?"

"It's nothing, quit it." My tone is harsher than I intended and Rica pouts. "I'm still trying to fix things with Derek." *Still? Jesus, what am I saying? It's been less than a week! After a five year relationship and an engagement, I should be working hard to save us, it's the right thing to do!*

Rica quirks an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Fix things? Babe, you don't fix things with a guy who treated you like a used napkin, even if he changes his tune and begs for you to come back. You let him be your doormat for a while, then you dump him for a shiny new model." She taps the desk for emphasis, like she's laying down the one and only universal truth.

I don't respond. What is there to say? There's a Skye that would have agreed with her, a past version of myself that would have doled out the same advice to any woman in my situation. But now that it's happened to me, I'm not so sure I can end it. I did want Derek back. I wished for him back. And now I have him. And I'm... confused and guilty and so unsure. I quell the feelings trying to well up inside my chest, which is already feeling tight with dread again. Thinking about Derek only leads to thinking about the spell.

"Well, when you're done 'fixing things,'" Rica continues, waggling her fingers in air quotes, "let me know, so I can live vicariously through you and Super Mario. I need some romance in my life."

I shake my head, deciding it's best to just let her have her fun. "Back to the actual pressing issue at hand—should I call the kid or not?" I flick the scrap of paper with the number. It flutters, then stills. At least this thing isn't magic, right?

Rica tilts her head. "Uh, yeah? Unless you don't want to return the notebook, which, I gotta say, is a choice. You keeping it as a souvenir? Was that job presentation you gave a major life event for you? Or... seriously, Skye, why would you steal some kid's school notebook?"

I stiffen. *Damn, I walked right into this interrogation!* 

"No. I just—" I don't have a good excuse. And I can't exactly tell her I'm afraid of the thing, that it might be some dark conduit I can't control. That I've already done something huge and disturbing with it. That there's a bag full of money sitting in Kaylee's house as proof. The whole *I've dabbled in the dark arts*-thing is not something I'm ready to share with a co-worker, even if it's Rica.

"It seems like such a cheap thing, like why even bother to get it back? Go to the dollar store and just buy a new one, right?" I chuckle awkwardly, trying not to sound unhinged.

Rica gives me a look, a narrow-eyed one as if she's Dr. House and I definitely don't have lupus, but she doesn't push. Instead, she straightens and stretches dramatically. "Alright, babe, you do you, I guess, but stealing a teen's little diary, that'd be pretty sad."

With that, she spins on her heel and strolls off, leaving me alone with the number and all my worries which are starting to pile up into my personal Mount Everest of Doom and Gloom.

I know I should call.

I also know that I really, really don't want to.

If I hate one thing it's facing the consequences of my actions.

*

I walk out of the library, phone in hand. Once again, Derek has bombarded me with messages.

*is kaylee okay?*

*everything good? miss u*

*text me when you get off work*

*making dinner for you tonight, love you*

*can't wait to see you*

*when are you coming home?*

Heart emojis everywhere. It's like a Hallmark store exploded on my screen. Now that I know for sure that the spell is to blame for his new behavior, the sight causes me only more dread.

Meanwhile Kaylee hasn't texted or called at all and I don't know what to make of that either. It's not that I expected her to... well, apologize. But I was hoping for... something. Some reassurance that she's not still mad at me, that things between us haven't gone further south and, most importantly, that she hasn't done anything with the money. I can't have her running around, buying whatever, drawing attention to herself.

But I hate fighting with Kaylee because the tenacity I admire in her whenever she's giving her all to achieve her goals comes out full force in the form of stubbornness and pettiness and a general inability to admit she did anything wrong. That's why most of our fights end with me making the first move to fix things. I'm not in the mood for that right now.

I step out onto the sidewalk, stuffing my phone into my pocket so I don't have to look at that barrage of emoji-laden texts. But they're still there, of course I know they're still there, a relentless reminder that I've turned my ex-fiancé into a lovesick marionette. A part of me, the small part that used to dream about this exact level of devotion, whispers that I should just let myself enjoy it.

But it's like eating a cake you know is laced with piss. Even if it looks like a dream, even if it tastes good, the knowledge ruins it. It's gross. It's tainted. You just wanna throw up.

I wrap my arms around myself, shivering against the evening breeze, though I know damn well it's not the cold making me feel this way. Kaylee's silence is seriously pissing me off. I keep waiting for my phone to light up with a message from her. She should apologize, she should admit that I'm right.

Instead, there's nothing.

I tell myself she's just being stubborn. This is how it always goes. She gets mad, she gets quiet, and then she waits for me to fix it. And usually, I do. I send a dumb meme or show up at her place with snacks and act like nothing happened, and we'd move on. I never make her apologize, I just let her pretend it's all good until enough water has passed under the bridge.

But I don't have the energy for that right now.

I need to figure out what the hell I'm going to do about Derek. And the money. And the notebook. And the high school kid who wants it back.

Jesus.

I exhale slowly, trying to ground myself. I just need a plan. I need to get through tonight. Go home, withstand Derek's love-bombing and make that damn phone call.

I'm halfway down the block when my phone finally buzzes in my pocket. My heart lurches—Kaylee?

No.

It's an unknown number.

I hesitate, staring at the screen.

A single message in an innocent-looking blue bubble: *I know you have it.*

I freeze in place. As if on cue, a sudden gust of wind whips the scattered leaves on the ground up around me, the cold biting my face. My fingers tighten around my phone, my thumb hovering over the message as if it's a predator waiting to strike at the first wrong move. I don't want to touch it. I don't want to do anything; I want it to go away.

It doesn't, no matter how hard I blink.

*I know you have it.*

My heart is racing. I will myself to calm down. Maybe this is the teenager, maybe Rica gave him my number and just forgot to tell me. There's no need to freak out. I mean, this is just a kid. I'm a grown-ass woman. I can't go around losing it over a text from someone too young to drink.

If it's the kid...

I don't want to think about other options. A third party getting involved in this? Nope, my mind can't handle the possibility, not when everything is already this complicated. I've been staring at the screen for a full minute, wondering if I should reply. I glance around, my pulse jumping, but the street is empty except for a guy on a bike and an elderly woman walking a yappy little dog. No one suspicious. No one watching me.

As far as I know.

For another long moment, I just stand there, my thoughts whirring with paranoia and dread. 

When I took the notebook, I thought it was just a silly game, the whole idea of teenagers casting spells was like something out of a bad YA novel. No one would have taken it seriously. So who can actually blame me for playing around with it? I had no bad intentions! Stuff just happened.

It must be the kid from the library, I tell myself. He's an awkward teen who doesn't really know how to talk to a stranger. Maybe he's being dramatic. Maybe—

My phone buzzes again.

*Give it back.*

I swallow hard. My mouth is dry.

Okay. This is fine. This is manageable. I can just return it, right? Pretend I never opened it, never read what was written inside, never used it to completely twist my life into a pretzel of doom.

Except that's a lie.

I did use it.

And if I used it, then who's to say this person hasn't too?

The thought makes my entire body tense.

Because... because what if this person knows about these spells? Like what if they have tried them already? Then why bother with theses messages? The spell I did - the one I've done twice now - fulfilled my wishes, no matter how absurd they were, right? I brainwashed Derek, I made a red adidas sports bag filled with exactly one million and one dollars appear, right? So why couldn't this person simply wish for the notebook to be returned to them? The spell isn't complex. I already know the recipe by heart and I've only done it twice. Surely the original owner wouldn't need the instructions anymore?

Unless the physical notebook is the actual magical object and the spell doesn't work without it being there?

But then, if it was, why would you bring it to a stupid little career presentation at a public library instead of keeping it somewhere safe?

I need to respond. Say something. Play dumb? Act like I don't know what they're talking about?

*New phone who dis?* I think about it, brushing it all off like some wrong number misunderstanding, but before I can decide, another message comes in.

*Don't make me come find you.*

The sound that escapes me is a mixture between a laugh and a gasp, a breathless, hoarse noise of shock, disbelief and outrage. I resist the urge to throw my phone into the street and run away like a crazy person. I suck in a breath, stare at the open threat tainting my screen and whisper the only thing that comes to mind.

"Motherfucker."