Page 46 of Cakes for the Grump
ME
I met one of his friends today.
He was lovely.
The friend that is.
And the company you keep is a reflection of you, or so I’m told.
There must be some redeeming qualities buried very, very, very, very deep.
I’ve done it. I’ve asked him, in the most round-about fashion, where I can still slip it off as a joke, to tell me the truth. Are you good?
Say yes.
LUKE
The number of those ‘verys’ is offensive.
Here, I could stop digging. Or steer myself away from the soft center of the matter. But then, I’ll never know. With my stomach acting up again, I ask him to reassure me without going at it directly.
ME
Yes, well sometimes I wonder if I can trust his intentions.
There. I said it. It is done. I’ve pointed to the laughing elephant between us and what is causing me to worry about spending more and more time together.
Because it’s working.
Luke’s plan.
He said he would win my friendship. That it would be no problem for me to consider him good enough to agree to the conference. His white whale. The bargain to be at his side, a trophy lending him my warmth and genuineness so he can convince important people that I’m also a reflection of him. That’s what’s at play in the background. I can’t let myself forget. All a game, this could be. But is it?
I wait almost twenty minutes for him to give me reassurances, but there is no follow-up. As I finally fall asleep, a very troubling thought enters my mind. Maybe heisanswering me by not saying anything, and I have to be smart enough to realize that.
We may joke and get more comfortable around each other, but I shouldn’t lower my guard. Not now. Not ever.
Luke Abbot is more than a man who makes me tea in the mornings.
THIRTEEN
Despite last night’sunanswered message, I go to work tomorrow with a raging case of optimism. It has finally sunk into me that I, Rita Singh, have made it to the next round of the—still terribly named—contest of CUM.
How is this real? Entering just a few weeks ago with my Tandoori Mac ‘N’ Cheese had been a scrambled effort. A way to stave off this sinking feeling of going nowhere. As a stunted antidote to my despair, I had barely hoped—but not truly believed—there could be a way for me to be professionally recognized as a real chef. That this opportunity might be the one to set me on a better path forward with my career. But here I am, chosen to move on to the next round. They liked my idea enough to want to see more.
For the next round, the judges are still finalizing the details, but all I know is that it’s timed. I’ve got to be ready for their follow-up email to come any day now, and I must be prepared to drop everything to compete. Howexciting—nerve-wracking—exciting—nerve-wracking?—
When I tell my best friends, they say they aren’t surprised because I’m super talented, and they know I’m going to make it all the way.Go celebrate, they insist. And get ready to bathe in all the glory when you win in the end.
No, I don’t think I can enjoy anything properly yet. The stakes are too high. I’ve got to start studying and training for this contest even more seriously, because suddenly it feels so real to me. If I win, I get the kind of prizemoney that lets me breathe. No more existing just to afford my bills and pay for my dad’s rehab. No more taking whatever job I can get.
No, MealKits Masala is going to interview the top three chefs of the competition and potentially offer them a recipe development position. And you get advertised to their millions of subscribers.
This…finally…could be my way out.
The whole start of my morning, I mantra-talk myself.You’ll handle what is going to be next. You always do. You are a fighter. Strong. Not going to fall apart, no matter what. This won’t defeat you. You’re good. Solid. Talented.
When I get to work, I look around the kitchen and see?—
