Page 41 of A Very Merry Enemy
Hudson
You’re both so muchalike it’s scary.
He walks away, but not before giving me a look that says we’ll talk about this later.
“Your family is nosy,” Holiday mutters.
“You used to love my family.”
“Oh, I still love them. But you? Absolutely fucking not.”
We finish rolling the cookies in hostile silence. She slides two trays into the oven, sets the timer, and we wait.
Holiday leans against the counter on one side. I mirror her position on the other, maximizing the distance in this limited space.
“We can’t keep fighting like this,” I say.
“What do you expect from me, Lucas?” She pushes off the counter. “To say I’m sorry for leaving? That I regret Paris? That I should’ve stayed in Merryville and lived the small-town life?” Her voice rises with each sentence.
“Yes,” I say, my voice low.
“I’m not sorry. I needed to leave. I needed to see what else was out there. And if that makes me selfish, then fine. I’m selfish.”
The confession hangs between us. Too raw.
Holiday stares at me, her eyes wide. “Lucas?—”
“Finally, the truth.” I give her a slow applause.
The timer goes off.
Saved by the bell. Literally.
Holiday pulls the cookies out, and I can tell something’s wrong. The edges are dark brown, almost burnt, while the centers are still pale and underbaked.
“What the hell?” Holiday stares at them.
“The oven was too hot. Did you bake them at three fifty?”
“I baked them at three seventy-five. I know this oven. I’ve been using it for two weeks.” Her face falls because she knows I’m right.
“We just ruined an entire batch.”
“We?” She spins around. “You’re the one who insisted on making them bigger!”
“Yeah? Well, you’re the expert!” I use air quotes with the last word.
We’re yelling now, both red-faced and furious. The burnt cookies sit between us, evidence of our failure.
“And you’re the one who keeps questioning everything I do! If you’d just let me work?—”
“If you’d listen to someone who actually knows?—”
“You don’t know anything! You just think you do because your family wins every year!”
“And you think you know everything because you went to Paris!” The words explode out of me. “Newsflash, Holiday, but you failed there, too. That’s why you’re back here, working in a small-town bakery instead of some fancy Michelin-star restaurant. That’s why you need the contest money to run away again. Because you couldn’t make this work, either.”
The words are cruel, meant to hurt her.
