Page 28 of Cooking Up My Comeback
Me: And you don’t see enough. About yourself, anyway.
Brett: What’s that supposed to mean?
Me: For what it’s worth, I think you’re already making smart choices. Your offer proves that.
Brett: How?
Me: You could have bought any building. Turned it into anything. But you chose something that would matter to this community. That’s not accidental.
Another long pause.
Brett: Goodnight, Amber.
Me: That’s it? No witty comeback about my amateur psychology?
Brett: I’m processing.
Me: Take your time. But Brett?
Brett: Yeah?
Me: Thanks for seeing me. The real me. Not just the mess.
Brett: There’s no mess. Just a woman figuring out how to be brave.
My throat tightens.
Me: Goodnight, Brett.
Brett: Sweet dreams.
I set the phone down, heart hammering. It’s just texts. Simple conversation. But it could be a door opening. And maybe I’m not as afraid to walk through it as I thought.
Maybe opposites really do attract for a reason.
By the time I pull into my parents’ driveway the next morning, my stomach is staging a full rebellion. It’s not the stress-eaten oatmeal or the gallon of coffee. It’s the fact that I’m about to tell my mother I’ve lost my job and might be considering a business venture with a man who makes me feel like I’m standing too close to a campfire—warm and slightly dangerous.
The neighborhood looks exactly the same. The basketball hoop still leans left from Dad’s miscalculated slam dunk attempt. Mom’s hydrangeas spill over the walkway in joyful bursts of purple and blue.
I take a deep breath. The air smells like honeysuckle and salt from the nearby waterway. It shouldn’t make me emotional, but it does.
Before I can knock, the door flies open.
“Well, if it isn’t my favoritedaughter with anxiety written all over her face,” Mom says, eyes crinkling. “You look like you either wrecked the minivan or fell in love. Which one is it?”
She pulls me into a hug scented like lavender lotion and warm biscuits. She’s in her favorite house dress, barefoot, with reading glasses perched on her silver-streaked curls like a crown of practical wisdom.
“Come on in. I made lemon poppyseed muffins. And decaf, because I know you’re vibrating.”
She’s not wrong.
I follow her inside, past the same buttery yellow walls and family photos, including one where I’m in a duck costume at age six, grinning like I’m about to conquer Broadway.
She sets a muffin in front of me and slides over a mug.
“I lost my job,” I blurt.
Mom doesn’t flinch. She sets down her mug and says, “Finally.”
