I almost laugh at the irony.
I did promise I would be more honest . . .
“Well, Mom, about that . . .”
I explain everything about the job. From the very first interaction with Avis to creating the recipes with Taylor as a taste-tester and all the way up to today. When I am finished she blinks several times before finding her voice.
“Today is your last day?” she asks, aghast.
“Yep,” I answer.
She asks me her favorite question: “What are you going to do now?”
In the past I would have evaded answering, but today I give it to her straight.
“Honestly? I have no idea.”
To her credit, she doesn’t freak out; she just looks at me as if I am a particularly interesting puzzle. Finally she asks, “If I asked you something, do you think you could be totally honest with me?”
Jeez, where is this going?
I nod.
“I know it’s not in your nature to bare your soul, but just this once, don’t second-guess it or overthink it. Just answer me honestly, OK?” she requests calmly.
“OK,” I answer, more nervous by the second.
“What would you do if you knew you couldn’t fail?”
My brows draw together in confusion. She slams her hand down on the table, startling me.
“Quick! Tell me the first thing that popped into your mind. Don’t think about it!”
“I’d open the bakery,” I blurt out.
She smiles and sits back in her chair.
I don’t have to tell her which bakery, because this was a dream from before, something I’d talked about with her too many times to count. Apparently the dream is still alive, though I hadn’t admitted it to myself, let alone to another person, in a really long time. When she doesn’t say anything in response, just continues to look at me with that smile on her face, I make myself ask the question I really want to know.
“Do you think it’s a bad idea?”
“I think,” she says gently, “that this is one of those times you should ask for help.”
I spend the next two weeks working on a business plan.
When I think about what I am doing, I start to freak out. More than once I almost talk myself out of it, because seriously, who do I think I am to start a business? But then there are Landon and Miko. They had the guts to do it, and while they aren’t rolling in money, they are supporting themselves by running a business they love, and that business is growing and booking new clients all the time. If they can do it, then I can too, right?
I look up spreadsheets and figures, interest rates and rent per square foot. I learn the difference between storefronts and warehouses, and which can best accommodate industrial kitchens. I want to throw up when I find out how hard it will be to deal with the health department, but I give myself a mental slap and keep on working.
For once, instead of being the last to know, my mother is the only one to know. She encourages me to tell my friends or even just my siblings, but I am not ready to do that yet. It feels like too much exposure. Since she has insider knowledge, I fully expect my mom to try to pop by with high-protein snacks or fight me to come to dinner as she used to during finals, but true to her word, she doesn’t meddle even once. I get at least one text a day telling me how proud she is and the occasional email with a motivational graphic she found on Pinterest, but beyond that she is silent. Landon has been swamped working on some big event, so if she’s noticed that I haven’t left the apartment and have been constantly hunched over my laptop in yesterday’s pajamas, at least she doesn’t say anything.
After two weeks of work I have created—I think—a really intelligent-sounding plan. It is forty-two pages, single-spaced, outlining why my idea is a good investment. Sure, the economy isn’t totally steady. Sure, three cupcake chains have just gone belly-up in the last six months. But I am not going to think about that. If I do, I will talk myself out of this whole idea. Instead, I print out my business plan and read over it for the seventeenth time. And then I am ready to throw it in the trash!
It is terrible. Nobody is going to want to read this. I don’t even want to read it! It is dry and boring, and I am trying to open a bakery, not a mortuary.
I fall down onto the sofa with the stack of boring, stupid paperwork clutched in my hand. I am still fighting the urge to fling it across the room when Landon and Miko come in, sipping the giant glass bottles of juice that everyone is so obsessed with now. Landon sets one down on the coffee table in front of me.
“We got you one too.” She taps the cap with her finger. “It’s kale, lemon, ginger, and a bunch of other stuff. It’s not as terrible as it sounds.”
“Thanks,” I mumble.
“What’s that?” Miko says, landing beside me on the couch like an overeager puppy.
She is pointing at the paperwork I have in a death grip.
“It’s . . .” I search for the words and can’t come up with any. “It’s this,” I say, dropping it in Miko’s lap.
She picks it up and starts to read it without comment. After a minute Landon leans over and starts to look too. I can feel their eyes look up at me occasionally, but I don’t look back. I study the Royal Navy polish on my nails. Hey, bully for me! I’ve managed another new color in my repertoire. Maybe I could be a nail tech. I’m pretty sure the lady who does mine makes really good money in tips.
“You want to open a bakery?” Landon squeals.
They are both practically bouncing on the sofa cushions in excitement.
“Um, yeah, I guess.”
“This is so rad,” Miko says, jumping up to grab her bag. “You need our help, though.”
My instinct is to make a snide comment and tell them how I don’t need their help for anything. But that isn’t true.
I can hear my mother’s voice whispering in my head. She’d probably turn purple if she could see her sage wisdom playing out right now.
“How do you think you can help?” I ask.
“Well, for starters”—Miko pulls her laptop out of her bag—“that proposal is about as exciting as a pamphlet for psoriasis.”
“Yeah, but at least with a medical packet there would be photos,” Landon says with a wink.
“Look,” I say, jumping up to reach for the paperwork, “I didn’t ask—”
Landon grabs the papers first and promptly hands them off to Miko before I can steal them back.
“Calm down, killer.” Miko starts to look through my work again. “I didn’t say this wasn’t well done—”
“Yeah, just boring and—” I say in exasperation.
“Max,” Miko says sternly, “do you want to know what our business plan looks like?”
Landon starts laughing in reaction to the question. Whatever the joke is, I don’t get it.
“We don’t have one,” Landon says in response to the scowl on my face. “We tried to write one out, but it was just so long and boring. And we couldn’t really figure it out, so we just stopped.”
I am too stunned to respond.
“This,” Miko says, holding up my papers in her hand, “is impressive. It takes hours and hours of research and the brain capacity to lay it all out correctly. You did a market analysis of baked goods along the western seaboard, for freak’s sake!”
I sniff primly. “I thought it would be important for potential investors to have that information.”
“It is.” Landon nods enthusiastically. “It totally is.”
“But at the end of the day, you’re not selling baked goods,” Miko tells me seriously.
I open my mouth to argue.
“You’re selling the experience of eating baked goods. Do you understand the distinction?”
I think of the hotel I have worked in for the last several years. From the lobby with its mismatched but congruous decor to the idea that you go to three different restaurants in order to have one complete meal. That is an experience. I think of Brody’s club or my family’s other restaurants and ho
tels, each one of them offering something far beyond the items on the menu. They evoke certain feelings in their guests, from playful and casual to luxurious and elegant. Miko is right; the experience is just as important as the food itself.
“I understand,” I tell them.
“Then the first thing we need to do is polish this up,” Miko says as she drops the bundle of paperwork back on the table. “Everything you present should look and feel the same as the experience you’re trying to sell.”
“I don’t know how to do that.” I look at them both desperately.
“Well, lucky for you, you’re friends with a designer and someone who produces experiential events for a living,” Landon says with a wink.
Together they start going through the report page by page, each making notations in the margins with Sharpies in different colors. I cringe when they rip out a section that took me two days of research to put together, but I keep my mouth shut. I do feel weird sitting there watching them work on my proposal without me.
“What should I do?” I finally ask.
“You”—Landon looks up at me for a second—“should figure out what you’re serving to whoever you’re pitching this to.”
“I can’t bring food into a formal business meeting. I’ll seem like an amateur!” I bark at her.
Both of them raise their eyes to me, looking amused.
“Dude, you are an amateur,” Miko says.
“And the best trick you have up your sleeve is the food you can create. Presenting one amazing dessert needs to be the opening volley,” Landon adds.
“And then what?” I ask.
“Then”—Landon looks at Miko and back at me—“you present this killer presentation we’re putting together for you, and they find you professional and trustworthy, and offer you buckets of money to build your dream.”
Glinda the Good Witch couldn’t have given that speech with any more optimism than Landon just did.
I snort in response.
“You think I can sell professional?” I point to my Betty White T-shirt, which has at least three stains of unknown origin gracing the front.
They look at each other and then back at me.
Landon says, “Maybe, uh, two or three desserts as your opening volley?”
Chapter Nineteen
A week later I am back in Taylor’s kitchen working on a cookie recipe I’ve dreamed up. I have no excuse to be using his space, since Landon knows about my meeting and would be happy to taste-test for me. But I’ve told myself that it’s good luck to create recipes here and that Taylor has already proven himself great at offering feedback. The truth is, though, that I miss him, and this is the best excuse I could think of to hang out with him again.
I am adding ingredients to the mixer when his hand snakes out and snatches some of the crumble topping I’ve already made and set to the side. I pull on my earbud, the sound of Paloma Faith falling out with it, and look over at him in question.
“It sort of reminds me of that toffee thing you made,” he says, grabbing some more.
“It’s the nutmeg and cinnamon—they were in that dish too,” I tell him with a smile.
He pops another bite into his mouth and casually leans back against the counter. I wish I could feel so easy around him, but now I feel awkward. It is uncomfortable between us. Actually, Taylor doesn’t seem to feel any differently than he ever did. He is affable and laid back, totally friendly. It is exactly what we agreed on, and I wish I could feel that way too. Unfortunately I keep remembering that kiss, which makes me think of everything that came after it.
It feels as if we’ve gone through too much to go back to being so casual now. But what is the alternative? Even if I could figure out how to have a normal relationship, he made it clear that he just wants to be friends. I am not about to press the point either; I don’t want to think of a scenario where Taylor and I don’t hang out anymore. I will just keep hanging out with him until I don’t accidentally keep looking at his mouth. I’ll see him often enough that I lose the desire to trace the words on his arm with my fingers.
“—tomorrow?” Taylor’s question catches me off guard.
Crap, he’s been saying something. I have no idea what it was.
“Sorry, what?” I shut off the mixer as if the sound is what was distracting me.
“Tomorrow. Are you nervous?”
I turn to look at him and lean one hip against the cabinets.
“Yes, but not for the reasons you think,” I tell him.
He gives me a half smile. “Oh, I bet what I think is probably pretty close to your reasons.”
I shrug. He is right; he probably knows exactly what is making me so nervous. There is no reason not to speak to him about it either; he’s always been a good sounding board, and maybe if I talk through it, I can calm myself down a little.
“Well, I—”
At that moment his phone rings and cuts off my words midsentence. I realize, in that moment, that I have never heard his phone ring. Had he always kept it on silent before?
“Hey, sweetheart, is everything OK?” he says into the phone.
My heart lurches and my stomach rebels. It takes everything I have to keep the retching sound from leaving my throat.
Taylor holds up a finger to me and mouths that he’ll be right back. I turn back to my recipe, my hands clutching the edge of the counter for support.
Of course he would date other people; we are just friends now, right? I have no claim on him anymore. In fact, I have never really had a claim on him. Something deep inside me starts to bubble and churn, and I want to scream. I want to rail at him and break his phone into pieces. I want to curl up in the corner and cry for days. But I force myself to take a breath, and then another.
If I can’t deal with Taylor dating other women, I won’t be able to stay friends with him. Some sick part of me would rather be hurt watching him move on than not be able to have him in my life at all. I’ve promised myself I am going to mature and stop acting like a child, and this is an excellent opportunity to learn to do that. So when he walks back into the kitchen ten minutes later, I force myself to smile and ask the kind of question one friend asks another.
“Did you finish that big conference table you were working on?”
He takes the lure as I knew he would. Taylor loves to talk about a piece of furniture; he can lose half an hour at a stretch just describing the finish he wants to use on a particular piece. I let the cadence of the words lilt through the air between us and melt some of the tension in my shoulders.
He is my friend, and I won’t trade that away even if it takes me a little while to convince my heart that this is better for both of us. I don’t even know if I am capable of a real relationship, and Taylor is one of the best people I know. He deserves someone who doesn’t come with a cartload of emotional baggage. Why would anyone want someone this messed up when there are so many better options out there? When it comes to Taylor, I don’t know many things for sure, but I know that whatever girl was on the other end of the phone can’t be as messed up as I am. I can’t blame him for his choice.
I hear the car doors closing out front, which means the people I most need to impress in the world have just arrived. Five different desserts sit on the island in front of me, along with beautifully bound copies of the gorgeous presentation Miko and Landon helped me with. Everything looks as good as I could possibly make it. There is nothing else I can do, except maybe throw up, which sounds like a great idea right about now! I look across the kitchen to my helper.
“I think I might be sick,” I tell her nervously.
My mom grins back at me. “They’re going to love it.”
She walks over and gives me a hug just as my dad calls from somewhere in the house.
“Honey, where are you?”
“We’re in the kitchen!” she calls back, a smile in her voice.
My eyes dart around the kitchen. There are still several excellent options for escape. The back door, for one, o
r I could slip out through the dining room.
“Too late now, Kenzie,” my mom says just as my dad and my brothers come into the kitchen in search of food. We knew they would be hungry; they always come back from golf looking for snacks. We’ve planned it this way on purpose.
“What’s all this?” my dad asks happily.
Liam walks towards the center island like a moth to a flame.
“Are those cheesecake brownies?” he asks.
I am struck mute by my nerves. My mom has to nudge me, twice.
Finally I find my voice.
“I—” I clear my throat. “Can I talk to you guys for a minute?”
All three of them look at me now, maybe alerted by something in my voice. Liam looks down at the desserts, then at the pile of paperwork, then back at me. He always sees more than anybody else.
I can see him fighting a smile, but it isn’t teasing or patronizing; it is pride that turns his lips up at the corners. It makes me feel embarrassed, but it also gives me the courage I need.
“Why don’t you boys sit at the table, and I’ll get you some drinks?” My mother jumps in to play hostess, giving me the time I need to get my thoughts straight. “Kenzie made some really incredible treats for you.”
The three of them agree and all ask for coffee. It is stupid, maybe, but I am inordinately happy they’ve picked something that will pair so well with dessert. I roll my eyes at my idiotic thoughts, as if the proper palate cleanser is all that stands between me and the crap-load of money necessary to pull this off.
Oh well, better get it over with.
Liam, Brody, and my dad all sit down at the table.
Actually, for today’s purposes it might be better to think of them in their professional roles, the acting executive board members of Barker-Ash, one of the biggest players in the hospitality industry in the nation. The combined wealth of the three of them could easily fund this dream of mine. My fear isn’t that they won’t be willing; my fear is that they’ll be willing out of obligation or love, and not because they think I have the talent necessary to pull it off.
Sweet Girl Page 23