“I lied,” Megan said softly. “I don’t have a podcast. I don’t even have a blog. Dust & Sugar was my mother’s. She used to make apple pie and then scream at the sky during thunderstorms. She said the world needed both—the comfort and the rage.”
The two women stood in the glow of the truck’s heat lamp. No romance. No grand speech. Just two broken pastry chefs and a frozen nitrogen tank.
Alexis picked up a slice of pie, handed it to Megan, and said, “Then let’s scream together.” Alexis Fawx- Megan Sage - Apple Pie And I Screa...
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 .
Alexis snorted. “The truth is, my pies are too sharp. Too much cinnamon. Too much spite. People want sweet. I give them complex.” “I lied,” Megan said softly
“You okay?” Alexis asked, washing a knife.
“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.” Dust & Sugar was my mother’s
“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.”
Megan Sage leaned in. “You make the pie. I bring the ‘I scream.’ We open a dual concept. One bite of your pie, then one scoop of their absurd, frozen chaos. Back and forth. Tart and sweet. Real and fake. People will lose their minds.”