Page 7 of Bringing Home the Bacon
I’m still working on it, Bruce.
I really do attribute my cooking skills to the streets of Philadelphia. I started cooking for my mom and me in the third grade, when it became clear she couldn’t handle caring for us herself. From the age of sixteen on, I worked forty-hour weeks in restaurants big and small all over the city while simultaneously going to school, managing homework, and making sure my mom had everything she needed at home.
My hands didn’t shake back then.
Life was by no means perfect in those early days—not by a long shot—but at least I knew where I belonged. I knew where I was needed. Now, it feels like I’m floating with no sense of where I can land.
I didn’t realize how much I counted on having Trent in the audience today. Without him in that crowd, I can only focus on the cameras and the blinding lights. All I can think about are the thousands—maybe millions?—of people who will watch this in a few days and judge me from their couches, voting on whether I deserve to stay or go.
It’s official: I am not cut out for this.
During the next commercial break, I’ll tell the producers I quit. Big potential prize money or not, it’s not worth feeling this anxious every time I step onstage.
As I place my hand on the oven knob and turn it back down to zero, my eye catches something unexpected in the audience.
A gorgeous blonde in a mint green sundress is staring at me, her eyes bright and her smile warm. She’s holding a sign. I squint beyond the glaring stage lights to read the text.
You and I Would Be Sizzlin’ Together.
I read it twice to make sure I’m not hallucinating her. She could be a mirage. She’s that gorgeous, and I’m that desperate for something—or someone—to anchor me. I laugh, point at myself, and mouth, “Who, me?”
She nods, her blond curls bouncing on her bare shoulders. She holds a finger up, silently telling me to wait before rooting through her bag. Luckily, our host has focused on another contestant right now, so the cameras aren’t directed at me. I busy myself whisking the concoction for my chocolate soufflé again—no splattering this time—and pour it into small baking tins.
I peek up at her, and she’s busy scribbling another note.
When I slide the soufflé into the oven, I realize something.
My hands have stopped shaking.
My breathing has evened out.
My heart is still pounding, but the pounding no longer feels like panic.
It feels like excitement. Just like Bruce said.
I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. That same knockout of a girl is beaming that beautiful smile at me again, and she’s holding up a new sign.
Meet Me at the Stage Door, Stud.
I turn my oven knob back up to 360.
Looks like I’m cookin’ again.
Chapter 3
Colleen
Meet Me at the Stage Door, Stud?!
I stand on Fifty-seventh Street behind a silver barricade with a dozen or so random audience members. I’m staring at white stenciled letters spelling out “Stage Door” and wondering what the hell came over me in there.
One second, I was unassuming kindergarten teacher Colleen Bedd locking eyes with a man in a chef’s hat. A moment later, I was a wild woman, scribbling suggestive signs and propositioning him from the third row.
Though if I’m being honest with myself? It didn’t feel wild or out of control.
It was the exact opposite feeling.
I knew—I just knew—I needed to connect with this man. For once in my life, I didn’t think. I just acted. My body bypassed my brain at that moment, and I operated from some primal setting I didn’t even know I had.
