Page 23 of The Billionaire Is Back

It is incomparably rewarding to be able to create and shape something that is so malleable and forgiving. Something I can consistently understand and control, with exact measurements and timing. And then I get to make it pretty and share it with others. Or eat every last bite myself. Why can’t everything in life be this predictable and fulfilling?

When my cookie dough is a quarter-inch thick, I put aside the rolling pin and peel away the top layer of parchment. It’s so satisfying, this tiny action.

Now I get to take my cookie cutter and create perfect shapes. Do I reach for the heart-shaped cookie cutter? Nay, I do not. Hearts are too easily broken. I’m going to make perfect circles. Because what goes around comes around.

Except my righteous Adele breakup anthem on Spotify is being repeatedly interrupted by notifications. I can tell it’s Vera before I even check my phone because my mom can’t type that fast. I don’t want to check my phone. I don’t want to answer anyone’s questions until I’ve cut out, baked, consumed, and digested my residual teenage feelings.

But I do.

I check my phone.

VERA: Dude.

VERA: Dude. Where are you?

VERA: Crystal told Bailey that she saw Grady coming out of the bakery with a cake box. Why am I not hearing this from you?

VERA: RUOK?

VERA: I can be wherever you are in ten minutes if you need me.

VERA: But first I need to know if GB looks as good as Crystal said he looks. If so, I will stop by the store for a bottle of tequila.

I mean. He looked one-full-glass-of-Pinot-Noir good, not entire-bottle-of-tequila good. Okay, maybe he looked two-to-three-margaritas good, but it’s hardly a straight-tequila-on-a-weeknight situation.

ME: Hi! NBD. I am way beyond totally fine.

A split second after I send that message, I regret every word I just typed exceptHi. Two seconds later, I get an incoming call from Vera. Even though I do not want to talk about this, I answer because she will show up at my door in less than five minutes if I don’t.

“I’m fine,” I tell her.

“So, he looked great, then.”

I attempt to sigh, but it comes out like a huff. I sound like Crabby Crawford. “I didn’t say that. All I will say is that he did not have the decency to get meaner and uglier as he got richer.”

“Very inconsiderate of him.”

“Super dick-ish move. But it was no big deal. I saw him and then he left. That’s it.”

“You at your parents’ house now?”

“Yep.”

“You’re stress baking, aren’t you?”

“No. I’mtherapybaking.”

“To relieve the stress of having so many strong feelings?”

“I don’t havestrongfeelings. They’re just old feelings.” I place my cookie cutter over the surface of flat dough and press down a lot harder than necessary. I silently apologize to my raw cookie baby for being so aggressive with it. That was uncalled for.

“Riiiight.With sentimental value. Like that Mumford and Sons CD you refuse to get rid of just in case CDs become a thing again.”

“CDs are technically still a thing. Some old cars still have CD players.”

“LikeGrady’sold car, you mean.”

I hate that she remembers that. “That is not what I meant.” Not consciously anyway. I wonder if Grady even remembers I gave him that CD. I shake my head, knowing the answer. Why would he?

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