Page 51 of Cakes for the Grump
“No.”
“But you’re unwell!”
“So what? It’s the real world.”
I stop what I’m doing. “What does that mean?”
He places a palm down on his desk as if trying to control himself. “You thought you could come in here, and I could—what? Abandon mymeetings and have some food together? That’s not how it works. Not that you?—“
He cuts himself off, but I won’t have it.
“…Not that I what? Tell me. Finish what you’ve got to say.”
His jaw clenches so much it ticks. “Not that you can understand. You bake cakes. Not that I don’t appreciate it, but what I have to do is—hard. It costs me. I can’t have you?—”
He scrubs a hand over his face, his eyes too bright, unfocused, and bleary.
My chest constricts into a vise. He doesn’t thinkIunderstand what hard means… I could laugh. He knows nothing about me! Not about how I live or what I have to do to survive. How raw my hands get scrubbing and cleaning at night, the tinned dinners I’ve rationed, those nights when I snuck out of bedas a childto spill a bit of my dad’s bottles down the drain. Not enough to go empty, but enough to lessen the chance he’ll drink himself to oblivion.
“You should leave, Rita. You can’t be here.”
I take a few breaths, try to control what is building inside me, irritation giving way to this painful hurt. Luke doesn’t want me outside of those little mornings in his kitchen, because that’s a bearable set of fifteen minutes. Not much sacrifice to fool me into softening, so I make his good food and eventually give in to going to that conference. How obvious. This was never about being real friends. I’m a tool he needs momentarily. All for his own benefit.
“You want me to go away…”
Luke pinches the bridge of his nose and mutters a desperate oath. “You have to.”
“Oh, I will. I came all this way for soup because some part of me was worried you were sick and needed nourishment, but it’s all for nothing, isn’t it? Silly me, I’ve forgotten who youreallyare.”
I don’t stop there.
“We’re not friendly,” I hiss. “This—any of it—will never work. Not with someone as—as—horrible as you.”
The hand on his desk now grips the edge. He leans his weight against it. “Don’t overreact.”
“Don’t tell me what to do! You mean nothing in my life, so you’ve got no right!”
He laughs, the sound glass-like. “Is that so? Then why are you still here? I’ve already told you to go.”
“I am so done,” I say, taking a big step towards the door. “I’m walking away from you.”
“I shut the door first, Rita. Or did you not understand that part?”
Screw him!
Storming my way out the door, I give him the finger.
I hear the contents of the desk clatter to the floor behind me.
FIFTEEN
Occasionally,I wake up feeling like I’m stuck in place and that there is no way I’m going to achieve my real dream of becoming a proper chef, and I keep thinking about my childhood and… also about my dad.
Those days I face difficulty, I want to express negative emotions, but I have to lie to myself and say everything is good, partly because if you aren’t cheery you are a sad bigger person and people assume it’s because of your body.
Trolls whisper from the woodwork: Lose weight and the sun will come out again! Or you’ve got underlying trauma that causes you to turn to eating, I assure you. That’s why you are sad, not for any valid external reason!
Sometimes, everything in combination is too much. It makes it hard to be honest with myself.
