Page 123 of Cakes for the Grump

I turn around, hands slipping around on my hips. “I’mfine.”

“If that’s how you want to do this.”

“Where are you going?”

He’s gone to the bar and has pulled out a bottle of whiskey. A glass is filled with golden-amber liquid. “I’m joining you until you tell me what’s going on.”

“You don’t drink,” I argue.

“I don’t. Not when so much is at stake.”

“Why do this? Do you not hear me? I’m fine.”

He finishes the whole drink. Pours himself another generous few inches.

“Stop it?—”

“What’s wrong?”

They don’t want me. I failed. Again.

“I’mfine.” My voice has hitched. Dammit.

“Darling, what has happened?”

“I’m fine.”

Do I sound a bit broken? Have to fix that. I can’t fall apart. I have to be happy and strong. Never cry. Why am I unable to maintain equilibrium? Is it the drinking? I blame the drinking. Why else can’t I simply pretend the entirety of my future, the one I was trying so hard not to get too hopeful about, hasn’t shattered essential confidences.

Luke stares at me and finishes the second glass of whiskey.

When he pours his third, I break.

“Don’t drink more.” How unfair considering my own state, but I’ve never seen Luke lose control of alcohol and the way he’s drinking it, so fast and without any guardrails, I—I—can’t. My arms wrap around me. “Please don’t drink. I can’t see you drinking like this. Not you.”

He comes to me, tilts my chin up like he did at the office. “You’re afraid,” he says, his eyes widening. “Explain.”

I do because in my addled state, it’s a distraction from having to tell him about failing the competition. Only I would unearth a childhood trauma to distract from the point.

“My father drank. A lot. He’s in rehab now.”

My toes are nicely painted. I’m staring at them.

Luke steps away. When I hear a glass clinking noise, I look up in time to see him spilling his whiskey bottle down the drain of a sink by the bar.

“Wait—I didn’t meant—You don’t have to?—”

When he returns to the bar and starts taking down bottles, opening them, and spilling them out too—I finally blink back into existence and try to stop him. He’s getting rid of vintage alcohol without batting an eye. There are bottles here older than me. Older than us combined.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I’m not having you scared.”

I drop my head onto his shoulder. “I’m being stupid.”

“Don’t call my Rita that,” he softly chides. “Sweet, beautiful, devastating, determined Rita. Please tell me what is wrong so I can fix it.”

“Why? Are you afraid I’ll mess up your laid plans tomorrow? That I’m not as perfect as you think. How I’m not going to end up anywhere because I’ve failed.”