Page 133 of Cakes for the Grump

“Is everything alright?” they ask.

It takes numerous attempts for me to get the words out, and when I do, they are garbled in fear and anxiety. “I—have to—go. I need to—leave. But—” Aiming a look down the hallway, my shoulders shake. Luke is busy. Mr. Duncan is busy. They’ve got their hands full finishing up their networking, ironing out relations, ensuring their position at the top of the business food chain is cemented. But without them, can I leave? I’m in Turkey.

“What can I do for you?” asks the assistant, gentling their voice as if I’m a trapped animal in obvious disarray.

“I need to leave,” I repeat.

Because Uncle is hurt. He thought I knew when I called, but I didn’t, and by then he’d let enough information slip that I badgered him incessantly until he gave up the story. There was a fall. His hip might require surgery. With Dad in rehab, he has no one beside him.

The assistant pulls out their tablet. “You have full authority, Ms. Singh. I can call the car if you need to leave.”

“I-I need to go to India. If you could call me a cab, and take me to the airport. I could book a flight.”On my credit card.

“Unnecessary. The limo is outside and will take you to the jet. The pilot is on standby, and can take you wherever you need to go. Even India. Did you need me to pack your belongings? Or perhaps, inform Mr. Abbot?”

“N-no time. And don’t bother him with this. He’s still busy with this deal.”

“Of course. Right this way. I’ll walk you to the limo.”

I follow Luke’s assistant in a daze, wholly lost to the way we go, the turns we take, the steps we descend until I’m tucked into the leather seats of a stretched-out matte black sedan. The driver attempts a few times to catch my attention, but I don’t realize it until we’ve arrived.

“Do you need an escort to the jet, Ms. Singh?”

I mumble an agreement, and we are off, moving through more passageways until I’m there, standing at the foot of the plane. The pilot is telling me he needs a few more minutes before departure and asks me whether I would like to wait inside. I decline. My body is experiencing hot flashes followed by cold flashes followed by hot flashes. I don’t know what I am doing, and am afraid it is an entirely unfair thing to use a plane that does not belong to me, but all I can see is Uncle in pain. It’s the same vision. Him fallen, crying out for hours and hours, unable to get up, lost and alone.

“Rita?”

I turn around. It’s him.

He’s here.

Luke.

“I’m sorry,” I say, fighting a throat that feels dry and swollen.

His eyes take in my pajamas and the hands I’ve bunched into the sides of my shirt. “What happened, Rita?”

My uncle is hurt, I almost say. But is it the complete truth? Or the catalyst of this escape? And what happens if I say the truth? Will Luke come with me to India? Or will I find out that he won’t? That despite the words Mr. Duncan has tried implanting into my head, this fiancé arrangement is over since his Intel deal has finished.

“I’m sorry,” I repeat.

“For what, darling?”

Over this whole experience, I’ve seen a different kind of world. Thebusiness and politics of the beyond wealthy. And as someone who grew up without much at all, I first felt drawn to the abundance of it all. I can admit that. To be able to buy anything with a snap of a finger meant you could solve any problem with a snap of a finger. Lately, Luke’s been solving my problems. He’s bought my old apartment building, so my friends have a place to go. There is no more Janice Dorian in my life. I’ve been living with him, rent-free. There is more money in my account than there ever has been.

My fingers are twisting in my shirt. “I’ve got a feeling that if I stopped working from this moment on, you wouldn’t care. If I never wanted to be a chef, it would be okay.”

His eyebrows come together in confusion. “If that’s…what you want, yes.”

It isn’t.I’ll get comfortable. Dulled.

“Did something happen at the conference? Is that why you are leaving? Tell me, Rita.”

Is there someone I can blame? Is it me?is what he means.Tell me anything. A starting point and I’ll fix it.

“I don’t want to dress in those clothes. I don’t want to talk to those people. I don’t want to attend the functions.”

“And I don’t want it either,” he says plaintively.