Page 2 of Resisting the Grump

But that's only because they don’t know how soul destroying the work is.

I honestly don't know how people do it. I only had limited interactions with the unhappy couples that came through our doors, but even as a lowly paralegal, watching formerly happy couples deliberately try to hurt each other took a toll on my blood pressure and positive outlook that wasn't sustainable.

Worse, I could see how the work had taken a toll on my mentors. After years of negotiating compromises that only made people miserable, they seemed to have completely forgotten that there were still people out there who enjoyed the little things instead of arguing over them.

Needless to say, I ended up as disillusioned as I was disappointed. After all, I still longed to do something valuable with my life. That's why I initially thought going into law was such a good idea. But I learned fast that I didn't want to make a difference at the expense of enjoying my life, and the more I rubbed elbows with self-impressed corporate types, the more I wanted to swim to the bottom of the river and scream my heart out.

So I dropped out with nothing to show for myself besides a fat pile of college loans, and I went to work in my friend's bakery. Because I'd rather spend my precious days around people who aren’t so blinded by their business goals that they can’t afford to get lost in the bliss of a perfectly cooked blueberry muffin.

And I hadn’t regretted the decision for a moment, which was a huge relief. Especially since I was worried I'd miss the money. Not that I ever had it. But I had the idea of it. That "promise" that, if I buried myself in student loans and became a master of persuasion and reading people, I'd eventually have it: the money and prestige I worked so hard for.

In hindsight, I could see what a foolish plan that was.

Spending money I didn't have now so I might have it later when I was too busy to have any fun with it just wasn't an inspiring enough dream for me in the end. Especially when I was rich now, at least in the ways that really mattered.

I had a job that not only brought smiles to people's faces, but I never had to be an asshole to anyone to get ahead. Best of all, I had free time. Real free time. The kind of free time the richest lawyers I knew aspired to have someday.

Admittedly, I still got a buzz whenever I passed the Starbucks I used to go to every morning. Overspending on trendy coffee at that time in my life was as much a habitual crutch as it was part of my daily uniform. But I didn't miss it. Just like I didn't miss bragging about how busy I was or how little sleep I was getting. Those badges belonged to soldiers in an army I no longer fought for.

And while I wished my former classmates and colleagues well, I knew it was unlikely we'd ever cross paths again. Because I wasn't a card-carrying member of the "I bleed Starbucks brigade" anymore.

I was a happy, insignificant nobody, and while it was looking like I'd probably die alone, at least my cause of death wouldn’t be a job that made me tired and stressed and skinnier than I wanted to be.

That said, while I thought working in the bakery was a breezy breath of fresh air because of my background, for the owner, every batch of scones was as high stakes as a court case and anything less than perfection was failure. Sometimes, when her stress was seriously snowballing, I wished I could share my perspective and remind her that we weren't landing people on the moon or removing brain tumors. Literally, no one was going to die if the edge of their sugar cookie was a few shades on the tanner side of golden brown. No one's childhood was going to be ruined because of the cookie they got custody of. No one was going to end up on the breadline if they had to share their bread.

But for Grace, baking was how she showed people she loved them, and only her very best love was ever good enough.

"Look at this," she said, shoving a Cuisinier magazine at me. "Look at what he wrote about this poor man's scallops!"

I took the magazine and did my best to muster some empathy for her situation. After all, while I couldn’t imagine working myself into a frenzy over a cooking competition, I knew how much the Star Baker Festival meant to her. Not only did she keep comparing it to the Olympics, but her disciplined dedication to addressing every detail proved how seriously she meant it. From the type of flour she used to what she wore on the day to who the guest judges were, there was no scone left unturned.

I flattened the spine of the magazine and leaned over the café’s counter, letting my eyes rest on Oliver Harrington's smug headshot. Not that I blamed him. I’d be smug, too, if I were that good looking. His hair was dark and thick, and every feature of his handsome face was unapologetically masculine. Strong nose. Sharp eyes. He looked like he probably rationed his smiles to keep women's clothes from falling off at inopportune times.

So as much as I wanted to hate everything about him to support my friend, there was something about his intoxicating confidence that intrigued me more than repulsed me. To make matters worse, while his review of Stevie's Swanky Fish Shack was inarguably scathing on all accounts, it was fantastically written. As a former wannabe lawyer, I couldn't help but appreciate his gripping and persuasive prose. "I'm sure it will be fine," I said, looking up from the magazine reluctantly. "He's only a man."

"A very mean man who, by his own admission, doesn't know anything about baking."

“At least he’s honest.”

"He's petty and small and he gets off on making people cry."

"That may be true," I said, recalling that I'd touched myself to thoughts of him after watching him do exactly that on TV a few years ago.

"This is a disaster."

"It's not a disaster, Grace. It doesn't change a thing."

"Of course it does!" she said, pulling at her short, dark hair. "Now, not only is the Star Baker award at stake, but the reputation of the café is as well. If he so much as whispers something nasty about any of my entries—"

"He won't," I said, grabbing her by the shoulders and stooping slightly to meet her gaze. "He'll be too busy moaning with his eyes rolled back in his head like all the other judges after they taste your desserts." I glanced back at his devilishly handsome face.

"If you even suggest that he's handsome, I’ll kill you."

I shrugged.

She groaned. "Whose side are you even on?!"

"Yours obviously," I said, gesturing towards the page. "But come on. I'm not blind."

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