Page 124 of Cakes for the Grump
He takes my face in his hands. “Failed what?”
“The meal kit competition.” I spit out. “They don’t want me to go on. I’ve failed. It’s over.”
“Ah, Rita.” He draws me in, even when I’m struggling against his hold.
“Stop fussing. I’m okay. I’m always okay.”
“Give me the name of the company. Masala—something wasn’t it? Your choice. I can buy them out or eviscerate them.”
“W-why?”
“Because I’ll rip apart any company and burn them to the ground before having to sit through another meeting watching you pretend not to hurt.”
His promise is delivered without a qualm of good conscience.
I grip his shoulder. “That’s not going to help because I’ll know. How I’m not good enough to make it as a chef. Not good enough to pay for my dad’s rehab. And I wasn’t good enough to stop my dad from drinking.”
Where did that last part come from?Oh no, I’m spilling words, and my eyes are acting very strangely. They water. I think I’m crying.
Luke carefully pulls himself back so our eyes can meet. His are miserable. “I’m here, but fuck, Rita, it kills me to know you think that’s on you. That you are carrying that here.” He puts his hand above my heart.
“Actually, he never drank when my mom was alive. But then she died having me, and everyone told me how much I cried. Not just those first nights, but as a baby. That whole first year after my dad lost his soulmate, and all he had left was me, I was crying. And…now I’m crying again.” I suck in a broken breath. “I should stop.”
“Don’t stop.” Luke holds me tighter, as if sheer pressure can piece me together.
“Maybe I wasn’t good enough for him, and that’s why he picked up that first drink. I know—that’s not the right way to think about it, but some days I do. Blame myself. And I know everyone would tell me not to. That Ishouldn’t.” My cheeks are wet. I don’t like it. I try rubbing them dry. “A long time ago, I decided I won’t cry anymore. So I need to stop this. I’m breaking my own promise.”
Luke pulls my hands away from my face so I don’t rub myself raw. “If it’s in my arms, it doesn’t count. No one finds out. Cry. Hurt. Punch me. Anything. Let me hold you and tell you how mistaken you are. How you are everything, even when you don’t feel like it’s enough.”
He does.
“I can’t stand here and pretend to agree, because it is preposterous about you having any blame in your father’s drinking. And about failing and not being good enough. I have to argue and list everything you are and everything you have done. Tell me you know how brilliant you are. How you can take one look at a person and figure out how to win their stomachs and their hearts. Me and the suits who clamor over themselves to eat your cakes at my meetings. There have been deals won and lost over your talents. I don’t say that as a joke. And?—”
He falters, then starts again.
“—And if you can’t see how brilliant you are, then I must take the blame. I’ve been selfishly keeping you to myself. Only cooking for me, not telling you there’ve been dozens of offers to know the chef behind your desserts. You are not nothing. You will never be nothing, Rita Singh.”
“But…he’s supposed to love me enough to stop.”
Luke flinches. “I would give up everything I own to make that true for you. For you, I wish that was how it worked.”
Everything I’ve kept chained up inside me is begging to be let free. Trying to hide my crying, I keep myself pressed into his shoulder. Luke strokes my hair.
Afterward, he carries me.
I clutch at his shoulders. “Wait, I have to throw up.”
“Right then. I’ll hold your hair back.”
He takes me to the bathroom and I’m sick. When I’m done, he lifts me again.
“Shower?”
I nod.
The hot water washes me away, and I let myself go further. Tears come and go again. Then Luke dries me off and wraps me up in a towel.
“I’m sorry,” Iwhisper.
