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The business card cut my finger. The injury unfazed me. I wiped the blood on my apron and stared at the rectangular paper some more. In black Times New Roman font, Choi Min-ho's name was printed on the pure white card. His accomplishments listed out underneath the small curve design:

I twirled the thick stocker. I finished taping it back to normal, after the slashes and teeth marks that nearly destroyed the card.

All thanks to Dottie.

When I arrived home last night, I tossed the appeasement on the dining table. Min-ho, a.k.a. best friend of whatever his name was, desired – no, wait, pleaded for me to take his card. If I had any questions that he would explain all the details about the documentary and how vital my role was. I shook my head.

Clearly dismissing whatever he rambled about this "documentary" focused on, I took the silly stupid rectangular contact to shut him up.

Dottie meowed for attention and food. I went on autopilot. I fed Amadeus and Dottie, cleaned Dottie's litter box, and stripped off my damp uniform and changed into clean, dry pajamas.

I fell asleep.

It wasn't long before Dottie woke me up at three in the morning. With her hisses and chewing noise, I shot up. Lightheadedness set in, and I fumbled within my bedroom. My feet stomped as I made my way into the living room.

What is Dottie getting into?

My hair tossed all over the place, and a knot formed on the back of my head. Dark purple circles decorated underneath my eyes.

With my index fingers, I gently wiped away the corner crusts from my eyes.

I felt a little better.

On the dining table, Dottie laid on her back. Her front paws caught something. She grabbed it by the mouth. She proceeded to play a game – throw and catch. Her head quickly turned, the thing flew up, and her paws stretched to catch it before it landed on her stomach.

"What do you have-"

I stopped. Tiredness seeped away and I became alert. It was the card!

In that moment, I saved the stupid appeasement. I received a napkin and held it out like a matador with a red cape. Dottie's emerald eyes followed the napkin, and multiple pieces of the card were on her chin and mouth. The remnants of the oddly shaped card were on Dottie's stomach.

"Dottie, here, kitty," I coaxed, "This is for you."

I watched Dottie's guard go down.

"Here!" I threw the napkin.

In super stealth mode, Dottie captured the target. Whereas I collected all the pieces and put them all in a zip-lock baggy. Dottie had a new toy to play throw and catch! Of course, there was a new mess to clean later but I went right back to sleep.

I felt like even though this whole exchange occurred a month ago, my mind kept reverting back to the bar. His clear blue eyes. That – ugh – thing!

"Thing? I'm not a thing!" I recalled his reaction.

I chuckled.

Now it was Christmas afternoon, I waited for the cookies to bake. My oven creaked as it continued to produce heat. The timer was set for twenty-five minutes. I sat on a stool in the kitchen. On a regular TV channel, Miracle on 34th Street played in my living room.

Lydia and Monica arrived after four o'clock. Monica jumped up and down, pulling on Lydia's arm, and kept repeating, "Santa! Santa!"

Monica insisted that we watch a Christmas movie. Grandma and Grandpa didn't have any television on - they covered the television with a Thomas Kinkade quilt she explained to me. Instead, they blasted Christmas songs and even pulled out a karaoke machine. She wanted to see Mr. Santa Claus. They sang "Rudolph," "Santa Claus Is Coming to Town," and "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer" instead.

To say Monica was disappointed was an understatement.

"Aunt Sugar's house had a television! It was on! And look at that, Santa Claus was there!!" Monica exclaimed.

Monica sat on the yellow-custard carpet. Her full-attention was on Mr. Santa Claus, who was accused of being a liar.

Lydia noticed my distress. I dismissed it and tried to focus on the cookies. Tried.

Once I started stirring the dough, I unfolded like a chocolate dove wrapper relaying the past couple weeks to Lydia. I explained from the beginning: I made an online dating account, ("That's fantastic! You've been thinking about pursuing a relationship, this a good step, Sugar!"), first impressions of Oliver – I meant August, our back and forth responses on the website ("What a jerk!"), and then he popped back up last night at the bar. About a documentary! Something about it. I had no clue what it had anything to do with me.

"What's your decision?" Lydia asked.

She added homemade icing on the cookies. We created the ideals: Snickerdoodles and Mint Chocolate Chips from the ingredients she brought over. We also baked sugar, lemon, red-velvet, and more.

An apron wrapped around her back and torso. Lydia wore an ugly sweater. Sapphire and white crystal snowflakes beaded on the arms of the sweater. Her dark skin complimented the sapphire. She wore black leggings.

My apron was coated in flour, brown sugar, eggs, and butter.

"I don't know what to do," I replied. I placed the card in my pocket. "He lied to me."

"He did," Lydia nodded, and then she looked up at me, "Did you research August?"

"What?"

Lydia chuckled. "You love researching. Did you find anything fun on him? Oh, what's his Zodiac sign? Maybe that's why you're not compatible! I'm sure there's a whole Wikipedia page dedicated on everything: height, birthday, his family background, and projects."

Lydia was a fan-girl through and through. She admitted it only to her closest friends. She dedicated time and energy into artists and stars. Wikipedia, Twitter, Instagram, and other social media helped her gain information and a friendly "stalking" habit, too, I've witnessed this during class and whenever we hung out. Lydia told the truth.

I loved research. However, I couldn't remember his full name.

August Willfield?

No.

Waker?

Wakefield?

The Internet connected and realized who I tried to discover. Thank you, autotype! His name popped up. It was down at the bottom of the most "searched" person. Four links provided biographies, the Champion synopsis, tons of photographs when he appeared on the show, his height, eye color, and his preferences. Each website had the same small paragraph and consisted of the same information.

Under the personal life section, the writer mentioned his parents' names, where August was born, parents' occupations, and how his father left their family. The rest was August's girlfriend – well ex-girlfriend, Penelope, the drama on how the relationship ended, and how he returned to a quiet life. All photographs were two years old, the most recent one was a screenshot of August in a commercial. The fuzzy picture captured him in an awkward position; half-blinking and mouth opened (probably saying a line).

None of the websites mentioned he was a jerk. My chest hurt. My heartbeat increased along with my breaths per minute. I thought a stranger invaded my space last night. A stranger that wanted something more than play arcade games. A phone number, to flirt, or hook up.

These fans had no clue he applied on an online dating app. On TrueMatch. He used pictures that the fans had never seen before. I noticed he had six pictures on his account. One picture was him looking down at a Terrier, his eyes were hidden and his shirt was off. Another photo, he wore sunglasses, tank top, baggy tan-shorts, and held a local coffee latte in his right hand.

I'm sure they would flip if they found out.

"Nothing I didn't know before," I replied, "Actually, I – we know something that the fans don't know."

"That he enjoys looking 'on the market'?" Lydia winked.

I shuddered.

Lydia laughed more.

"Momma!" Monica yelled from the living room.

Lydia wiped her hands on the towels. "I'm coming over. What's happening?"

Lydia walked over towards her daughter. Monica held tightly onto her doll; her tan skin and curls matched the doll. The difference was the eyes. Monica's eyes were hazel-green eyes and the dolls were dark brown like Lydia's eyes.

"Momma."

"Yes, my dear."

"I want a cookie."

"After you eat dinner."

"But Mommy," Monica whined.

Lydia puckered her lips. "But? But? Are you calling me a butt?"

Monica started to laugh and then she remembered she was sad so she went back to whining. Lydia leaned over, spreading her arms out to reach Monica.

"Are you calling me a butt?" Lydia repeated, in a high-pitched voice. "Are you?"

She tickled Monica: shoulders, neck, and stomach.

Moncia's giggles started a fit. The whining monotone noise stopped. She couldn't help but laugh at what her mother was doing. I smiled.

When I was a child, I imagined I would be married and have kids. At the time, I thought twenty-two was old. Now, I know realistically that my goal was to marry a man who loved and respected me; no matter how old I was when the time came. All that mattered was that I chose to love the man and he chose to love me whenever I was ready. My family and occupation were my number one priority .

Children? Not a priority. I had slim moments of baby fever.

I babysat Monica whenever I could. I experienced how to change a diaper, the full responsibility as I overlooked a small human that had a mind of its own that didn't know consequences, locked all doors and filled all holes with soft material, and I gave kisses on Monica's nose. The giggles. The smile – small teeth and squinted eyes.

Yes.

I desired those moments. However, the idea of being pregnant. That was another story. I knew the details of how, but the whole process was foreign to me. The unknown terrified me. All of it. The act of intimacy (love-making) and then actually having another human being inside me.

I shuddered.

Responsibility.

Sometimes, I had difficulty feeding myself. I couldn't imagine one hundred and ten percent keeping track of another human being. Well, I accomplished taking care of patients at work. I gave my heart to those people – the hurt, scared big eyes, and nervous fidgety individuals.

Forty plus hours, I dedicated my time to them.

Home was my space. I focused on being lazy and enjoying the soft, smooth blankets and television shows. Of course, I still kept up with my place. I had my lists and I created small games to see if I beat my record. These games motivated and helped me to complete them. Even though, I wanted nothing more than to sleep, bake, and watch Netflix.

I couldn't grasp coming home from my occupation and tending to my child. This hypothetical kid. My time wouldn't be mine. It would be dedicated to the kid.

I glanced at Lydia.

Lydia grinned and picked up Monica. She blew raspberries on her face.

How does she do it? Working full-time as an engineer and taking care of Monica?

I praised Lydia.

Lydia was the primary care-giver. She drove Monica to daycare, had Monica ride the small bus home, came home two hours earlier than other employees because of being a single parent, bought groceries, cleaned the beds, and then the process happened again the next day. Monica's biological father, Tyler, sent a birthday card every year with a check and the same words: "Happy Birthday, dearest."

The age would change. Monica's name was never on it.

Monica started to read her letters now. "Who is this Momma?"

Lydia told her the truth. He was her dad. She didn't want to say biological because that big word would have overwhelmed Monica's brain.

She smiled and said, "I hope I get another one next year."

"He told me not to tell him her name. He would cut me off every time I try to say her name. Even at court, he asked the judge to refer her as 'the child.'" I recalled Lydia saying that to me.

What a distasteful man. I wish Monica had a good father figure.

Automatically, I thought of that man. What's his name -

He's a better bachelor than a future dad.

I rubbed my face.

"You should call him."

I blinked.

"What?" I asked, walking over towards Lydia.

"Call Min-ho, find out more about this documentary. Ask open ended questions. You're not guaranteeing that you'll commit to whatever this proposal is. I think that's what Min-ho wanted to explain to you."

"He made the whole situation up. His friend wanted to push my buttons," I said, truthfully.

Lydia nodded. "August could. But would Min-ho lie?"

My eyebrow rose.

Monica grabbed her mother's face and gave Lydia a raspberry, too. Lydia giggled and tickled Monica's neck.

I remembered Min-ho saying, "He never apologizes."

I believed that. His statement.

I wasn't sure if I trusted Min-ho all the way.

Why did he give his business card to me if he could message me on TrueMatch. I guess he wanted to seem professional?

Professional and trustworthy were similar connotations, correct?

Even though he withheld information about their meeting (although, I accidentally messaged him instead of Lydia), he seemed straight-forward and a peacemaker.

"Maybe."

Lydia smiled. "You know, I like playing devil's advocate. There's always another side of the coin."

Yes. Like how there was always the other side to Lydia and her ex-boyfriend.

How he needed to focus on an occupation first before kids.

How he was too busy to help Lydia. He needed to focus on college.

Those were excuses, Lydia gave him the benefit of the doubt. Until Monica was born. Then she realized he spent his money on alcohol, women, parties, bars, and clubs. Not one penny went towards Monica for child support.

Lydia fumed. She cursed and called him when she discovered the truth.

The next day, she called and apologized for her behavior.

Her behavior!

Her ex-boyfriend took the apology. However, he continued in his choices. Lydia recorded all his incidents in a small book so then she had documentation and evidence. In case, he started to lie about her whereabouts and desired custody of Monica.

His parents dictated his nonassociation. With Monica. In his parents' harsh opinion: out of wed-lock and "mixed" race.

Those uppity white -, I stopped my thoughts, I'm thankful Lydia and Monica don't have to associate with them.

I let out a deep breath.

"You're right, but that doesn't mean I'll call him."

"It's your choice," Lydia said, "But wouldn't a documentary be fun? It could be all about your work – your passion."

My passion.

The hurt, sometimes idiotic, helpless patients. The paramedics were paired with the fire department; therefore, whenever there was an emergency alarm, we rushed to the scene. Calls ranged in different circumstances.

A dog stuck in a tree.

An elderly man's toe stuck in the shower drain.

A woman who was high on marijuana that said her arm hurt, but her arm was gone!

Those circumstances seemed silly and time-consuming, but again I helped the lost and hurt. The dog was homeless and it needed somewhere warm and dry to sleep. The dog tried to survive and thought logically to climb up. He couldn't climb down. He whined and whimpered in a high-pitch that on-goers called it in.

Rufus now lived at the station at work.

The elderly man stumbled after taking a shower. He turned off the water and then he slipped. His heart raced; with old age, he shook and pulled on the white string that called the closest emergency hotline.

Sherman and I arrived at the scene.

He kept apologizing, told his stories of the elderly women in the apartment complex (a few lovers), his family that all had passed away, and went back apologizing.

The woman experimented with marijuana. She hadn't slept for five months after being sent back home from the armed forces. She lost her arm during her service. She needed something. The medical and psychological waiting list had her at the bottom. She had one more month to go. She bought marijuana. She didn't know what the symptoms were so she freaked out and called the emergency hotline.

The woman had no family. Her parents died while she was serving. She was an only child. She explained her whole life story as I found food to give to the woman. We had to wait for the marijuana to clear her system.

My co-workers and I stayed with the woman for eight hours.

The woman cried. Screamed and talked and talked.

The lost and lonely kind like Mama.

At first, I attended University of Cincinnati with a Culinary Degree. After my freshman year, Mama was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. Papa couldn't sleep because Mama had episodes late at night or early in the morning.

Papa made a difficult decision. So did I.

I changed my major. My focus transitioned to others instead of baking. After all, friends and neighbors asked, "How are you going to support yourself? Where would you have a bakery? You have to be the best. Since it's competitive and all."

Why did those questions affect me? I love creating masterpieces for the tastebuds. But did I start to doubt? I learned about paramedics. I enjoy that. Right?

Therefore, I went for an associate degree. Hands on, EMT/Paramedic degree that included shadowing an occupational. I dedicated fifteen hours a week on top of my eighteen credit hours.

Scholarships and previous fast food and summer jobs that included Kings Island Amusement Park. Even with the commute, it was worth the pay and adding the revenue into my savings account. With this money, I set it aside for my college since Mama and Papa gave their money to their daughter. They wanted to. They couldn't. The best they could do was to create my savings account; they added $20 in the account every month. Papa was soon retiring and Mama hadn't worked in over ten years. She was a stay at home mom with my mother.

Until my mother left.

My biological mother got pregnant halfway through college. She thought she could take care of me. Then dropped me off and didn't contact me.

I paid all my expenses in the end. Last year, I had to ask for a loan from the University. Gradually, I began paying off the loan on monthly basis. After three years, I had three fourths paid off. It was still there. That debt haunted me.

Interest was the devil.

Other payments prioritized over the debt.