Page 105 of How to Lose at Love

The clock ticks.

Ryann is still flipping through the programs. Everything she’s stopping on to preview is a chick flick, a reality dating show, a high-end real estate reality show, or a baking show.

Dammit.

It’s finally dark outside, and from the looks of it, the rain is still coming down hard. I’m grateful for the quiet, companionable silence Ryann is offering me, because the last time I messaged my brothers, sounded like they did indeed have company.

The girls next door, obviously, but some others, too.

My brothers are still green.

Yeah, they’re only two years younger, but the twins still haven’t figured out the value of privacy and surrounding themselves with people who give a shit and aren’t just using them for their own personal gain.

Well, Drake at least.

Drew has a better head on his shoulders. If Drake has company tonight, Drew will most likely hang for a bit, then make himself scarce, hide in his bedroom with the door locked and only come out to take a piss.

Ever since our dad died, Drake has been struggling. Even though he has us—his brothers—and our mom, he always looked to Pops for guidance, more so than the rest of us. Now that Pops is gone, he doesn’t have that anymore. Seems he’s filling that void with meaningless sex and company.

I check my food app.

Twenty more minutes until the food will arrive.

Ryann settles on a baking show—but it’s with kids, not adults, and in the short time we’ve been watching, it looks like their challenge is to create a fall-themed cake, fully decorated, using the ingredients they can choose from the back wall.

Seems easy enough.

Cakes can’t be all that difficult, can they?

The judges walk the perimeter of the room, the bald dude chatting with the kids, offering them tips and tricks. Asking them why they chose this, why they chose to do that.

“THIRTY MORE MINUTES, BAKERS!” the female judge shouts among moans and groans.

Huh.

I sit up straighter in my seat as some boy named Brennon removes his cake pans from the oven and returns them to his station, tries to remove the cakes from the pans.

Neither cake budges.

“Oh no,” he wails, head tipping back. “I overcooked it.”

Brennon bangs the metal on the counter to no avail, choking back a sob, tears streaming down his face.

Then, when the cake finally does come out, it falls in chunks onto the counter, much to his dismay.

Snot bubbles from his nose.

Okay, so maybe this show isn’t so terrible after all. This kid is seriously bringing the drama.

The judge rushes over to console him.

“Kid, chop-chop!” I shout at the TV. “It’s time to rally, Brennon, not stand there with your dick in your hand.”

Ryann sputters on her bottle of water. “Dallas, those are kids!”

“So? If you’re gonna be in a baking championship, fucking deal with the ups and downs.”

That’s exactly what Pops would have said.

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