Page 106 of How to Lose at Love

You deal with the good and the bad when you’re competitive; it ain’t always a walk in the park. Some days you get slammed and feel like shit, some days you’re the victor and come out on top.

But it’s never easy no matter which way it goes.

“Calm down. He’s eleven years old.”

Pfft.

I clamp my mouth shut and watch the show. Brennon manages a patch job on his shitty-looking cake, using frosting to plug the holes where sponge cake should be, wincing when the judge downs a giant gulp of buttercream.

“Lucky for Brennon, that Sophie girl made a cake that looks like a pile of dog shit.”

“Dallas!” Ryann laughs, trying to scold me.

I’m right, though—Sophie is eliminated, and Brennon lives to see another episode by the skin of his teeth.

My app buzzes at the same time Ryann’s phone dings, a notification that the delivery dude is here with our dinner. We both hop up at the same time, but I motion for her to sit.

“I’ve got this.”

I don’t need her going to the door after dark and answering it with some strange person on the other side of it. Granted, it’s probably another student our age, but still.

Since I’m here, better safe than sorry.

We live in a fucked-up world, and I’m glad I have three brothers and not a sister whose safety I’d have to worry about nonstop.

The handoff is quick; I make short work of going through the bags after I set them on Ryann’s small kitchen counter. Behind me, she moves around the space, gathering plates and forks and a few napkins as I dole out chicken wings, beef and broccoli, lo mein, buttered noodles, and steamed vegetables.

“This is enough food to feed an army.”

I nod. “It all sounded good. Couldn’t decide.”

“Apparently not.” She isn’t complaining, just stating facts, her own plate as loaded as mine. Food out of the way, we return to the living room to eat—and to see if Brennon can squeak out a sweet dessert that looks like a savory food.

“I love this challenge,” Ryann tells me, shoving a forkful of noodles into her mouth.

Nice.

Real nice.

If there’s one thing she isn’t doing, it’s putting on airs and trying to impress me.

“He has to make that cake look like chicken and mashed potatoes.”

I’m well aware. “This is going to put that kid over the edge.”

We’d already seen him cry twice.

I lean in, fork suspended halfway to my mouth as we anxiously wait for something to go wrong.

Surprisingly, Brennon isn’t the one who has a meltdown during this segment of the show; it’s Adam, the twelve-year-old self-proclaimed pie king from Connecticut.

Adam’s strong suit is not detail.

Everything he so painstakingly baked, trying his best to make his sweet look like tacos and salsa, crumbles. The coconut he added food coloring to is too green to look like lettuce, the strawberry “tomatoes” are too red, the cake he used as a taco shell is too thick.

Nothing worked out for him the way he planned, and he loses it, stomping his foot and laying his head on the counter before he’s even begun plating his dessert to present to the judges.

“YOU LITTLE QUITTER!” I shout. “GET IT TOGETHER.”

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