“No,” Megan said, tapping the notebook. “I’m a genius with a podcast and a deadline. The article is called ‘Apple Pie and I Scream.’ It’s about how we chase comfort and chaos in the same bite. And you, Alexis Fawx, are the crust holding it together.”
For the first time in months, Alexis smiled. “You’re insane.” Alexis Fawx- Megan Sage - Apple Pie And I Screa...
Alexis snorted. “The truth is, my pies are too sharp. Too much cinnamon. Too much spite. People want sweet. I give them complex.” “No,” Megan said, tapping the notebook
“Your pie doesn’t sell because it’s honest,” Megan continued. “It’s got tart apples, burnt butter crust, and a whisper of salt. It’s a pie that’s been through something. Meanwhile, your neighbor’s truck sells that neon-blue ‘ice scream’—synthetic vanilla, liquid nitrogen, and a scream of artificial joy. And they’re killing it.” And you, Alexis Fawx, are the crust holding it together
“Megan Sage,” the woman said, extending a hand. “I write the Dust & Sugar blog. And I’m not here for flattery. I’m here for the truth.”
That night, they didn’t sleep. They peeled Granny Smiths until their fingers ached. They borrowed a liquid nitrogen tank from a disgraced chemist. By dawn, the two trucks were parked side by side, and a new sign hung between them:
Alexis looked up. Leaning against the truck’s counter was a woman with wild sage-green eyes and a crooked smile. She wore a faded diner jacket embroidered with the name Megan .