Page 97 of My Irresistible Enemy

“Little bit of both, maybe,” Aiden said with a shrug. The fact that he didn’t make a single crack about what we’d gotten up to only confirmed my suspicions. “I just figure, all I can do is my best, and the people who deserve to make it into the finale, will. I’m sure America knows what the right choice is.”

“We’ll see.” Vivian rapped her spoon on Aiden’s counter twice before walking away.

Once the camera was off him, Aiden turned and flashed me a smile. I sighed. He was trying to make sure I made it into the finale instead of him. Which was sweet, but it twisted me up in knots anyway. I didn’t like seeing him give up.

By the time we were done, Lucinda and Aisha had both produced beautiful cakes, tarts, and ice creams that I wanted to bury my face in. The judges complimented Lucinda on her use of flavors, and Aisha on her textures and design.

There was a projector screen standing off to the side behind the judges’ table, and after trying Lucinda and Aisha’s bakes, the judges played a snippet of their families’ interviews while the bakers watched, blushing and tearing up. It was cheesy, asking them to comment on how much their families’ support meant to them, but I was sure Aiden would say it was good TV. I mentally rehearsed nice things to say about Deacon and Mal while I waited.

When it was Aiden’s turn to go before the judges, his cake was lopsided, his tart was still smoking from where he’d accidentally set it on fire, and his ice cream was a viscous green liquid.

“You’ve made us coconut mint…soup?” Tanner said, arching an eyebrow.

Vivian lifted a spoonful to her lips and tasted it delicately. “Well, the flavors are alright. And I will say, it’s very creamy.”

She paused, and everyone in the tent, even the production assistants, looked at Aiden, expecting some sort of wisecrack. But he just smiled and nodded. And when it came time for his family interview segment, he just blushed and said he was lucky to have his brother’s support.

No jokes, no innuendo. It was like he was trying to be forgettable—and bad enough in the kitchen to guarantee that he got sent home.

Finally, it was my turn.

I brought up my bakes—a lemon cake with raspberry filling, a key lime tart, and a blood orange sorbet—and set them in front of the judges.

“I’m impressed,” Vivian said, banging her spoon on the table for emphasis. “Truly, Nolan. Well done.”

Tanner smiled as an assistant queued up the interview with Mal and Deacon, then turned to me. “It just so happens, there’s someone else who’s impressed with you too, Nolan. Very impressed, and very proud.”

My brow furrowed. There was something odd about Tanner’s phrasing, though I couldn’t pinpoint what. Then the video started to play, and my jaw dropped.

The person on screen was my mom.

Not Mal, not Deacon, not any of the other seven billion people on the planet I would have preferred the show to talk to. No, it was my mom, sitting on my living room sofa, wrapped up in my grandmother’s afghan.

How the hell did they find her?

She smiled at the camera. It was broad and honest and punched a hole right through the center of my chest.

“Nolan is—Nolan is my baby, and I know I’m biased, as his mother, but he’s just the best human being in the whole wide world.” She beamed. “Life hasn’t always been very kind to him, but when I got sick a year ago, with nowhere else to go, he asked me to come stay with him.”

Oh no. No, no, no. What was she saying? Why was she talking? Why had she agreed to this?

How could they have sent someone to my apartment, done this whole interview, without me even knowing about it? This could not be happening.

“He takes care of me,” she continued. “Drives me to all my appointments, makes sure I get the medication I need, keeps track of everything. And every night he comes home from work and we just talk. We spend time together. Like we haven’t been able to since he was a little boy.”

Please, stop talking, I willed her silently through the screen.Please, please, stop talking.

“When I was diagnosed with cancer, I can’t lie, I sort of thought it might be punishment for all the pain I’ve caused.” She paused, sniffed into a tissue, and smiled a watery smile. “Nolan hasn’t—” Her voice broke. “Nolan hasn’t always had an easy life.”

The whole tent had gone dead still as my mom cried on screen.Don’t do this, I begged the universe, but it was too late. I didn’t know when they’d recorded this interview, but they’d obviously edited it for maximum impact.

God, how could my mom not tell me about this? How could she not warn me?

“His father and I split up when he was young,” my mom said, “and he went to live with his grandparents.” Another sniffle. “His father was…not a kind man. He used to hit me. I’d try to keep Nolan safe, but I—I couldn’t always manage. I had too many of my own problems going on.”

The only person in the tent not watching my mom was the woman operating the camera that was trained on me, recording my reaction to this. I wanted to evaporate. I wanted the whole world to disappear.

How could my mom air all our problems to the world? Let everyone see just how fucked up our lives had been?

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