Page 30 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

Jennifer

I have definitely achieved enlightenment.

I am one with the powdered sugar gods. I am not checking the judging tent for the seventh, no, eighth, time in the last ten minutes.

That would be unhinged behavior. That would be the behavior of a woman who has emotionally invested herself so deeply in a lemon cupcake that her entire sense of self-worth now rests on its tart, buttercream-frosted little shoulders.

Which I have not done.

Obviously.

I just happen to be standing in a perfect line of sight from the judging pavilion. Casually. Like someone who appreciates… tents. Fabric architecture. And the possibility of mortal combat if Cookie’s poison-laced lemon blondies even look like they’re getting positive feedback.

“Jen,” Blake says gently, offering me a funnel cake like it’s a sacred peace offering. “You’re doing the thing with your eye again.”

“What thing?”

“The one where it twitches like you’re planning crimes with your thoughts.”

“I am planning crimes with my thoughts,” I say, snatching the funnel cake and nearly inhaling a whole sugar-coated corner. “But they’re very low-effort crimes. Just… arson. Maybe a light stabbing. Nothing dramatic.”

Carson, who has not stopped wearing aviators since we parked, glances sidelong at me like he’s checking for concealed weapons. Joke’s on him. I left them all in my purse. Along with lip gloss, gum, and the knowledge that my cupcakes are perfect.

Edgar murmurs something approving about the scent profile of the food stalls, as if we’re not at a county fair where one can purchase a deep-fried Oreo the size of a toddler. His tie is neatly pinned, his shirt crisp, like this is the dessert version of a military op.

Which… I guess it kind of is.

I exhale slowly through my nose. The kind of breath you take before assassinating a pastry tyrant.

“I’m fine,” I lie, hands clenched in the pockets of my sundress so I don’t march over to the judges and demand they publicly affirm my dominance in citrus-forward baking.

Blake’s hand brushes mine like my emotional state is encoded in my body language and he’s just been… studying the code.

“We’re proud of you,” he says softly. “You already won. No matter what happens.”

I want to kiss him and scream into his chest at the same time. I settle for nodding once, very regally, like a woman completely and totally unbothered.

Then I check the judging tent again.

Just once. Okay, maybe twice. Okay, maybe I am vibrating at a frequency only dogs can hear.

But you know what? I baked a cupcake that could kill a god. And if it doesn’t win, I’m fully prepared to turn this wholesome family event into a crime scene with excellent lighting and a faint scent of lemon.

My men manage to distract me. It starts with a stuffed rooster. Not just any stuffed rooster. No. This thing is ten pounds of offensively bright feathers, bugged-out googly eyes, and the faint aura of desperation that clings to all rigged carnival prizes. It’s hideous and perfect.

Blake wins it for me on his third try at a game I’m ninety-percent sure is a front for laundering dirty funnel cake money.

He blushes all the way down to his collarbone as he hands it over, cheeks pink and triumphant like he just returned from war instead of beaning some plastic milk bottles with a weighted softball.

“I, uh, know you like birds,” he says, voice cracking on the word birds like I’m going to rip off his clothes and mount him on the Tilt-A-Whirl for such gallantry. Honestly? Not off the table.

Behind us, Carson makes a noise that can only be described as a cop’s chuckle, which is to say it’s 87% judgment and 13% veiled horniness.

“Trying to give her your cock in public?” he says, completely straight-faced.

I cradle the rooster to my chest like it’s a newborn. “Finally,” I sigh, “a man who knows his role. Stuffed and silent.”

Blake nearly drops the rest of his tickets.

Carson smirks, sunglasses permanently glued to his face, somehow radiating judgmental lust despite being the one holding my purse like it contains state secrets.

He’s posted up next to a deep-fried butter sign, arms crossed like he’s guarding the nuclear codes and not my emergency lipstick and tampons.

And then there’s Edgar.

He returns from the snack stalls like a fairy tale villain, looking immaculate despite the sweat, the crowds, and the air being 80% grease vapor. “I’ve secured more sustenance,” he announces, handing me a paper tray with ceremony.

The funnel cake is still sizzling.

“I requested it fresh,” he says. “Powdered sugar on the side, no cinnamon contamination. We’re cleansing palates today. The corn dogs have mustard and ketchup on the side.”

“Do I even want to know what you bribed them with?” I ask, licking powdered sugar off my thumb.

“Respect,” Edgar says smoothly.

I take a bite and moan obscenely just to watch Blake’s ears turn red.

Carson shifts like he’s thinking about frisking someone. Edgar’s lips twitch. The rooster stares.

My men, I think, proudly.

My himbo, my mortician food snob, my cop-shaped stormcloud. My fairground chaos.

The judging tent still looms in the distance, but for now, I have sugar on my fingers, testosterone in the air, and a rooster that will haunt my dreams.

Life is good, until Cookie appears like a vengeful frosting demon summoned by the scent of success and men she hasn’t successfully emasculated.

She’s wearing full Karen Armor, pearls, pressed khakis, a visor that screams local HOA president, and a blouse so stiff it might legally qualify as body armor. Her lipstick is angry red. Her expression is feral.

And, oh boy, she’s got her sights set on Edgar.

“Couldn’t beat me when you baked dessert not bodies,” she spits, marching up like we’ve personally desecrated her family tomb, “so now you’re hiding behind your little bitch hoping she’ll avenge your pathetic blue ribbon dreams?”

Edgar tilts his head like he’s filing her under threats to neutralize later.

I, however, have stopped mid-bite of my glorious cake. The tension in my jaw could slice cheese.

Blake, sweet chaotic peacemaker that he is, tries to step in. “Hey, that’s not, uh, that’s really not called for.”

Cookie spins on him like a spite-powered top. “Aww,” she sneers, voice dripping with saccharine venom, “aren’t you supposed to just stand there and be pretty like the town trophy man-whore?”

Blake goes pink. Then red. Then sort of shell-shocked buff blush, which is normally hot but currently makes me want to throw down.

Edgar moves. Not subtly. Not with his usual refined ghost-glide. No, he steps forward and his voice rises. An event in itself.

“Say what you will about me,” he says, loud and sharp enough that several people turn to look, “but you will not speak to my woman…” his hand gestures elegantly toward me “…or my harem himbo…” he throws Blake a look that is half affection, half raw possessiveness “…like that.”

The world goes still.

My corndog twitches in my grip like it, too, wants revenge.

I lock eyes with Cookie. I smile. It’s not kind. “You know,” I say sweetly, “they say fried food tastes better when blood’s been spilled.”

I raise the corndog. Weaponized. Poised. Ready.

Carson steps into my peripheral vision like a sultry warden, sunglasses glinting with menace. Without a word, he reaches over and gently takes the corndog from my hand. Like it’s a live grenade. “Let’s keep the murder food-free, sweetheart.”

My murder stance falters. My ovaries, however, applaud. “But she called Blake a whore.”

“I’ll kill her later,” Edgar says, calm as ever. “Without involving mustard.”

Cookie sneers at all three of them, lips curled like someone just farted in her artisanal scone tin. “Takes three men to rein in one crazy bitch.” She flounces off, hips swinging like she’s storming a runway.

Somewhere behind us, a voice yells, “Boooo!”

I turn.

The funnel cake vendor nods solemnly and winks.

“Bless you,” I whisper.

After the corn dogs have been devoured without turning into murder weapons, we hover by the contest tent like we’re planning a heist. Four grown adults, all vibrating at different frequencies of unhinged. It’s honestly poetic.

I try not to pace. Really, I do. But my body is running on caffeine, cortisol, and vengeance frosting. I’m practically sparking.

Carson stands beside me, sunglasses on, arms crossed, radiating the kind of judgment that could curdle milk. The reflection off his lenses shows the judges moving through the entries. His lips haven’t moved in ten minutes. He may be in a meditative state. Or plotting a kidnapping.

Edgar is murmuring under his breath. “So much over-mixing I can hear it. That crumb structure will be devastating. Do you see that piping? She used a closed star tip. Coward.”

I’m 80% sure he’s not even looking at Cookie’s table. He’s just tuned in to the frequency of pastry sins.

Blake’s hand is in mine. His palm is warm and a little sweaty, like he’s nervous for me. Every time I start to vibrate, he squeezes gently. Like I’m some sort of chaotic lemon bomb and he’s just trying to keep the detonation delayed until the blue ribbon lands.

Cookie, of course, is near the front of the tent, wearing a smug expression I want to sandblast off her face.

She’s loudly discussing her “decades of ribbon wins” with anyone within a five-foot blast radius.

“Some of us still value tradition,” she says with the cheer of someone spiking their lemonade with arsenic.

“Not all these modern nonsense trends. Salted caramel and basil like we’re on an episode of Chopped. ”

I don’t flinch, but Edgar’s jaw ticks.

Then the judging begins. The panel approaches Cookie’s cupcakes first. Three elderly judges. One young intern-looking guy with a clipboard. One of them has a palate so refined he refused to try the corndogs because the oil “smelled anxious.”

They taste Cookie’s lemon cupcakes.

One of them tears up. Another clutches their chest.

My heart jumps in panic.

Then the clipboard guy gasps and whispers, “Too much extract.”

Cookie narrows her eyes, watching the subtle horror ripple through the table. “They must be allergic,” she says icily. “To excellence.”

I nearly laugh. Nearly. Instead, I lean in slightly toward Edgar and say, “Do you think they’d disqualify me for accidentally shivving her with a corn dog stick?”

“Depends where you stab her,” he replies.

God, I love him.

The judges step up to the mic. There’s a moment of fanfare, fair-level, which means a kazoo, some clapping, and the sound of livestock screaming in the distance.

My spine straightens. My pupils dilate. The cupcake gods are watching.

“And this year’s winner of the Blue Ribbon for Superior Baked Goods…”

They pause. My entire bloodstream is just lemon zest and uncut panic.

“…goes to Jennifer Lane, for her Lethal Lemon Cupcakes!”

The tent explodes into applause. Blake whoops like he just saw me punch a man on live TV. Edgar claps once, but it’s the kind of deliberate, echoing chef’s kiss of a clap that feels like a mic drop. Carson smirks so hard his cheek twitches and calmly raises his phone to snap a photo.

I blink. Once. Twice.

“What is my life?” Cookie wails. She’s in full Greek tragedy mode now, staggering slightly, clutching her chest like she’s just watched her third husband run off with her sourdough starter. “I lose to a crazy lemon bar lunatic? I own the bakery. I am the pastry queen.”

Somewhere in the crowd, a small child’s voice pipes up. “Not anymore.”

The silence is immediate. Devastating. Holy.

I don’t see them, but I will find that child. I will buy them a pony. And a kingdom.

Cookie lets out one last sob, like she’s being forced to eat margarine with a spoon, then storms off into the fairgrounds muttering about sabotage and slut energy.

A volunteer approaches with the prize: a fair queen tiara.

It’s perfect. Hideous. Magnificent.

Bedazzled with hot-glued sprinkles and a sad little lemon-shaped plastic gem at the center, like a tiny citrus crown jewel. They place it on my head with solemn ceremony.

Blake actually cries. He wipes a tear and whispers, “She’s so majestic.”

Edgar nods gravely. “Our citrus sovereign.”

Carson doesn’t say a word. He just changes his phone background to a photo of me wearing the sprinkle crown and licking icing off my finger like a menace.

And I bask. Sticky. Victorious. Crowned in chaos and sugar.

Long live the Lemon Queen.

Someone demands a group photo. I don’t remember who. Possibly the same volunteer who handed me the glitter-glued tiara and bowed like I was ascending to the Sprinkle Throne.

Either way, I’m suddenly corralled into position. Centered. Triumphant. Holding my blue ribbon in one hand and the world’s ugliest stuffed rooster in the other.

My sugar-slicked, morally flexible Avengers surround me. Blake stands to my left, smiling so wide it might split his face. He leans in and whispers, soft as cotton candy, “We did it.”

My chest flutters.

Edgar is on my right, his vest like this is a wedding portrait. “Shall we go get celebratory corndogs?” he says, voice rich with amusement. “I believe the funnel cake stand has regained its composure.”

Carson, dead center behind me, arms crossed like a human wall of brooding protectiveness, tilts his sunglasses down just enough to make eye contact. “Only if Jennifer promises not to stab anyone with hers.”

I grin. Sharp. Unapologetic. “No promises.”

The camera clicks.

And just like that, it’s immortalized.

Me. A lemon-scented lunatic in a sprinkle crown. Blake with frosting on his collar. Edgar somehow untouched by fair grime. Carson radiating cop energy, but the filthy, complicit kind.

We look insane. We look glorious.

We look like family.