Page 44 of I Love a Good Challenge

A slight jump. A sharp inhale. A shuffle to stand.

And then, without a word, I feel the edges of her fingers in my hair. The unexpected contact nearly startles me into giving my pretense of sleeping away. I will myself to be completely still and keep my breathing steady, even though I want to lean into her touch.

“I’m so sorry, Graham,” she whispers, “for all of it.”

The words bring emotion to the back of my throat. I’ve needed to hear them for years. I’m a few seconds from opening my eyes when I feel the soft brush of her lips against the side of my temple. They are gone an instant later, and I question whether I imagined it.

But the tingling of my skin and the moisture pooling under my closed eyes tell my heart and mind that I didn’t imagine it at all.

Chapter Sixteen

Lily

Today is one of those days in which the always cozy—though somewhat unhinged—town of Birch Borough officially loses it.

Bake Fest kicks off today. It’s a town-wide event. Everyone turns out to watch the contestants face off in a battle worthy of the greatest baking shows in history. While participants include people who wishfully dream of being on The Great British Baking Show (or The Great British Bake Off, in Great Britain) but have never baked a cake in their lives, we also have those who have taken on baking as a serious hobby, plus local pastry chefs who could use more publicity.

It’s one of those rare days in our small New England town in which, as much as we care about each other, everyone is out for themselves. Our baking battles are savage. The townspeople get downright territorial over their blueberry scones and lemon pound cakes.

Bake Fest happens in two rounds. One round must include chocolate, but it can’t be used in both. Personally, I wish the judges would add another round so I can at least assess if I have the stamina to compete on one of my favorite television baking shows. Because you never know what the future holds. If Graham can be talent-scouted for a movie role, I can certainly find myself being filmed in a culinary showdown.

The winner receives more than just a plate, though it’s not much. The judges present a plate with the official Bake Fest logo, the year it was won, and a twenty-five-dollar gift card to Ted’s Pet Shoppe, which is unfortunate because I don’t have a pet.

I’ve won several times over the years. If I win again, I almost might want to get a dog. I don’t think I’d do well with a fish, for some reason. As much as I love animals (and marine life), I don’t think I could handle beady little eyes that don’t respond.

When I’ve won in the past, I usually picked someone in town with a pet and said, “Go nuts!” This year, I’ve already decided to give the gift card to my favorite waitress, Lucy, for her cat. Liam’s cat already has sponsorships and enough food gifted for the next few years that it’s like he won a lifetime supply of Rice-a-Roni on The Price is Right.

I’ve been training for Bake Fest my whole life. When Harold, our town clerk, stands at the front of the flower-covered pavilion and yells, “Let the baking begin!” what ensues is a rush of pure adrenaline fueled by sugar. The view is beautiful since it is near the river, but the makeshift cooking stations are pure mayhem.

I love it. I’ve been competing in Bake Fest since I was eligible the year I turned sixteen.

Sparrow isn’t into it. She likes to sample everything, of course, but she always says she wants to enjoy baking for others. She has enough to worry about at our bakery, and she doesn’t need another thing to keep her up at night. Meanwhile, I’ve been slowly crushing my way through all the hopes and dreams of the other contestants each and every year. Most years, I haven’t won, but I still show up and expect to annihilate the competition. It seems like the only thing I’ve known how to quit was Graham.

While I could demolish everyone with my chocolate cake recipe every year, I was banned from ever making it again when I was seventeen. Someone asked to buy it from me, and good ol’ Harold thought it was gambling. He didn’t want to go to jail since I was underage. I’ve tried to repeal the ban several times but to no avail. The Bake Fest council takes it so seriously that at the top of the application is now written, No chocolate cakes allowed, as if verbally banning me from competing with it is not enough.

This year, I’m making fluffernutter cookies. Yes, that’s right—peanut butter cookies with a thick swirl of homemade marshmallow crème. They are divine. I’ve been perfecting the recipe for months. While Sparrow is known for her croissants and macarons, I am known for my chocolate creations and decadent cookies. I like to crush things on top of my cookie creations just to see how they will taste. (Things like espresso beans, not crickets—I don’t care if they’re good protein.)

Swiftly, I gather my ingredients. I am trying to play it cool because I know that Graham just walked over to join Sparrow and Rafe. Our friends are back from Nashville and watching nearby, stretched out on a blanket in the grass with a picnic basket between them. They are spreading out cheese and wine (as if we needed a reminder that they’re French). Graham is sitting with them, of course.

I shake off the distraction of his handsome face in my peripheral vision. Focusing all my energy on each baking step, I begin measuring my sugar and flour and getting everything sorted.

In typical fashion, before I know it, thirty minutes have flown by. There is flour all over my apron and sticky marshmallow fluff woven through the ends of my hair. A blob of peanut butter somehow landed a few feet from me in the grass, and a squirrel is now going to town on it. You’re welcome, buddy.

Bless Sparrow. She knows when I’m in the zone. It is no surprise that when my cookies slide into the little makeshift oven at my bake station, she appears beside me. Rafe and Graham trail not far behind her.

I sneak a glance at Graham when he nears. When I find him looking at me, I give him a little nod. It’s all I can manage without completely losing my focus.

I’m still reeling from him sleeping over on my apartment floor the other night. I remember the lights coming on and the rain slowing down to almost nothing before we fell asleep. There was no panicked moment, wondering what to do with only one bed available. Before it even got to that, we fell asleep in each other’s arms. Well, I woke up in his, but I hope he didn’t notice.

We exchanged an awkward goodbye as Graham walked out with the fuzzy croissant socks tucked into his dress shoes after I insisted he keep them. We haven’t talked about that night since. But when I saw him crossing the street yesterday, I waved. I lifted my hand in greeting, a shy smile on my face.

In the last few days, something has shifted for us. I don’t think either one of us knows what to do with this new dynamic yet.

And while my palm is still sore and my heart still tender, I’m trying my best to get it together.

“Did you hear from them today, Lils?” Sparrow asks quietly, a furrow in her brow. By “them,” I know she’s referring to my parents. But if they didn’t call me on my birthday because they were training new doctors for one of their clinics, there’s no reason for me to expect a call before the humble Bake Fest.

I shake my head, a hint of melancholy overshadowing my usual spunk. I should be used to being overlooked by them by now. What I do feels so small compared to what they accomplish each day, changing the trajectory of lives, often saving them. Still, it stings. What if I have inherited their indifference, their dedication to their passions at the expense of those they love? A fresh wave of guilt hits, followed by the determination to remember why I know I’m not cut out to love someone like he would deserve. The proof can be found by looking over at Graham and letting it sink in how much I’d fail if given another chance, no matter how much I’ve wanted one. The truth is a necessary punch to my gut.

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