Page 122 of Cakes for the Grump

I look in the mirror and see my face has drained of color. Someone who is in a lot of shock and pain is staring out at me. I poke at the cheeks. They don’t regain life. Splashing water isn’t doing much either.

Not sure I’m understanding, I open my email again.

The last line shouts at me.

We wish you all the best in your future endeavors.

What future endeavors?I wonder. This was it. They didn’t like my dish enough. I’m not going on to the final round. It’s all over.Myfuture… Everything I saw coming together has been stripped. There is no prize for making it to the semifinal. No consolatory recognition.

Stuck again.

Theo texts me. He is wondering if everything is alright in the bathroom, and whether I’ve run into an emergency that requires anything, perchance a tampon. If so, he’ll acquire it promptly for me.

I tell him I’m coming out. It takes everything in me to walk calmly back to the boardroom. I have to force myself not to run out of the building, although the temptation is a drum beating through me. It’s time to turn itback on. My fake-cheer persona, set at the most maximum of settings. The only way to make it through the day is to turn myself into plastic.

I walk slowly back, and when I return to the group, I’m perfectly blank.

Before joining Theo, I refill my wineglass.

Then again, when that finishes.

To avoid Luke for the rest of the night, I go opposite his orbit every time he moves. Good thing he’s in the trenches of his billion-dollar takeover. If I wasn’t so numb, I’d be awed by the intensity of his attention to detail.

Theo prods me with banter, which I return with the perfect swing of a tennis champion. We trade jokes. Talk about date fails. He pries about how far Luke and I have gone in commitment to our fake fiancé drama.

Patting his arm, I laugh. A smidge too loud.

Luke raises his head. Mr. Duncan tries to get his attention, pointing at something with his pen, but he doesn’t waver. Gray-blue eyes narrow.

To cover for myself, I shoot him an enthusiastic, perfectly punchy thumbs-up.

He cancels the meeting.

Everyone, including me, tries to argue.

It doesn’t matter.

“That’s enough for tonight.”

THIRTY-THREE

Lukeand I are back in the penthouse.

“What happened?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I say. “Though I suppose there’s a lot happening tomorrow. Big day. Normal to be nervous. Are you?”

“What’s wrong, Rita?”

My thigh knocks into a sofa. I think I’m on my way to being properly knackered.

Luke’s hand steadies my arm. “I’ve never seen you drink like this.”

I haven’t. Because of the history with my dad, it scares me to get to this state. A secret fear of an alcoholic’s daughter is to become their alcoholic dad. That it’s there in your genes, the same ability to traumatize those you love. How if you start having these kinds of nights, they increase in frequency until a switch is triggered somewhere subconsciously.

“I’m not wasted. Just—leave me be.”

“Talk to me.”