Page 75 of XOXO

I'm underwater. Floating. I may as well be collecting forks and singing about how life is better under the sea. Can I stay underwater forever? The cold child, creeping over my arms, says I can’t. Dammit.

But when I finally speak, when I finally float to the surface long enough to break for air, I don't expect the words that come from my mouth.

"It's February," I whisper, wetting my lips with my tongue. "It's February. In DC. Were you really desperate enough to fuck her in the cold?"

Miles, Dylan, and Sarah all turn to me, their faces in varying states of guilt... and with that, it all clicks together like a ghastly, evil puzzle.

"Oh," I whisper. "This isn't the first time."

Danielle lets out a low whistle from across the table. "Wow. WOW. So you lost the bakery after that?"

I've just finished recounting the last time I came face-to-face with Miles Compton — an incident that will forever be burned into my mind.

After such an exhausting day, it's amazing either of us has the energy for this conversation. In between rounds of interviews and reapplied makeup and awkward confessional-style interviews, each contestant on Menty B had to complete their first challenge: bread. Danielle and I finished in the top three of ten contestants. Now we're sitting at the restaurant of the hotel where we're staying for the duration of the competition.

"Yep," I confirm, glaring at my Shirley Temple. "Miles tipped off the health department, and they showed up the next day." Danielle looks scandalized, so I rush to explain. "No, no... I don't even blame him. For that part, at least."

"Oh?"

"He's a food critic. He could've lost his job if he didn't report a suspected violation, and two employees boning on a food receiving table is a pretty damn big one. Then the health department found all these maintenance things that Dylan just" — I toss my hand, frustrated — "didn't do, despite promising he would. There was mildew growing in the ice. The freezer was below temp because of a broken compressor I told him to fix. He waited so long that a lot of other stuff needed replacement, which we couldn’t afford. In a lot of ways, it was a blessing in disguise. At least no one got sick."

There’s a long pause after my words. Ugh… I’ve said too much. I always over share around Cancers; I pegged Danielle as one the second we met.

To keep myself from saying more, I reach for a slice of her Japanese milk bread. It's light and fluffy on my tongue — more than enough of a distraction to prevent me from adding the details threatening to spill: But I do blame Miles Compton for being a demanding, entitled asshole... and for being the reason I didn't complete culinary school.

Danielle bites her lip. "I'm so sorry. I wouldn't have brought it up this morning if—"

I wave her off, gesturing to a slice of my cranberry orange loaf that's sitting on a plate in front of her; true to our promise this morning, we saved a slice for each other. "Nah, you couldn't have known. Now, eat up! I want an honest review from a trusted peer!"

She giggles; I study her face intently as the fork slips past her lips.

“Holy shit, Willa!” Her eyelids flutter in pleasure. “The judges weren't wrong — this is otherworldly."

Oh, right... the judges.

The grin slides off my face as fast as it appeared. Because Miles fucking Compton is a judge, isn't he? And I don't know what he's been playing at, but he's done an excellent job of pretending I'm a total stranger.

"Ooof." She winces. "Sorry. That reminded you of Miles, didn't it?"

Goddamnit, here comes that perceptive Cancer energy again. "Yeah," I admit, taking another bite of milk bread, which is equally otherworldly.

"So... what are you worried about, in particular?"

I let out a half-laugh. What am I not worried about? "This show is my only lifeline. It's my only shot at moving out of Mom's house and starting a new bakery. I've put all my eggs in this basket, and it's starting to feel like a giant practical joke." I meet her eyes, paranoia surging through me. "Would you tell me if this was all a setup? Like the Truman Show?"

Anyone else might've laughed, but Danielle actually considers my words. "Well, I'd never be on a show like that, but someone on a show would say that, so I understand your concerns." She sips her water; I get the impression she's carefully choosing her words. "Instead, consider this: Would I stake my reputation and name on such a cruel stunt? As you said, I have a big Instagram following. I promise, I'm not pulling anything funny."

"No," I agree. For the first time in a long time, my smile feels genuine. "You'd have no reason for an ulterior motive."

"Exactly." She smiles back. "And I also have no ulterior motive behind asking you— no, telling you— that you should confront Miles yourself."

"What?" I blanch. "W-why would I—"

"Because that's the only way you're gonna get answers," she explains, her voice dripping with patience; suddenly, I understand how she has three teenagers. "All the judges are in those big production trailers on set. If you really want answers, you need to go to the source."

"I'm scared, though." Why do I sound like I'm eight years old? "W-what if he's mean?"

She laughs, but not unkindly. "Oh, sweetie. He probably will be. I have to say, though — he doesn't give you mean looks."

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