Page 136 of Cakes for the Grump

I’m back. I’ve missed it so much. All of it.

Noor hands me a cup of chai. “I know you must’ve left Barcelona for Uncle, but will you go back?”

Kiren plates up biscuits. “That face says she doesn’t want to.”

“Barcelona is not like Mumbai,” I say, cradling my cup of warmth. “Not that—I mean—I don’t want to be unfair. The people living there are nice. Sweet. Incredible, really. I only wish I had been able to experience that more, but I couldn’t.”

“Why not?” asks Noor.

The list tumbles off my tongue. “Janice’s chores, always being stressed about money, then I was consumed with the meal kit competition, and then I lived with Luke. His apartment had everything. I didn’t feel like I needed to leave it.”

“I’ve never seen you cry like you did at the hospital,” says Kiren, lowering her voice. “What do you mean, always stressed about money? And what chores?”

“Tell us everything, puth.” Uncle has come out of the room. I rush to help him, but he waves me off and uses a walker to take himself to the couch. An age-spotted hand circles mine. “From the beginning, tell us everything. And the truth this time. Please, Rita.”

I think it will be like carrying stones I’ve lodged away for so long that they’ve increased in weight due to purposeful neglect. A part of me believes I’ll smile my way through it again, softening pain, and smoothing awayclarity like one does if you spill water over a painting that has yet to dry. But I’ve already spilled myself to someone else and vomited messy feelings over him, and cried enough to swell my eyes.

I’m less scared of what that looks like now.

Still, I hesitate.

“We’re your friends,” says Noor. “Family, really. Each of us are the siblings we never got. If you fall to pieces, we’ll help gather you.”

Uncle squeezes my hand. “Things are less tough when you speak about them.”

I chew on my lip, and that makes Kiren’s eyes flash hot. “You don’t decide what bothers me. I decide what bothers me, so trust that I’m listening because I care about you. We’ve given you time before and not pushed. We’ve waited for you to be ready to talk, but now I’m asking. Begging. Share your problems with us, Rita.”

Their warmth and concern radiate around me, and I want to cry again, caught up in how I tried so hard to protect the people I love, but in doing so, I’ve done the opposite.

“I never wanted anyone to get hurt,” I say.

“Not trusting us hurts.”

“I’m sorry.”

“We don’t want you to feel guilty.” Noor puts a hand on my leg. “Just let us understand what you’ve been going through.”

“I’m so used to saying it’s alright,” I whisper, “but I’m not alright at the moment.”

And that’s how it starts. An admission of truth, that first mark on an otherwise closely guarded pool, ripples outward more and more. I start with Janice.

My friends and Uncle curse her.

Then I go on to tell them how I’d lost my job and recovered another by taking Luke’s offer. Words pour fast after that. It’s not all bad. A lot of it—the cakes, the teas, the ways he tried in the beginning to become my friend—makes us chuckle.

I’ve held back the good with the bad, I realize. And I’ve robbed them of sharing their own related experiences. Noor makes a comment about this banker she also dated who thought Sudoku was the best puzzle out there. Kiren went to a pasta-making class once and left halfway. Uncle—shockingly—says he similarly isn’t a fan of sweets.

When I get to the failure of the competition, I whimper as if getting cleaved in half again. There is a long period where I’m covering my face with my hands, and my shoulders fall as if burdened with inadequacy. “I’m not good enough.”

“You’re brilliant, Rita!” they all shout. “And you made it so far, and there will bemoreopportunities?—”

I’m not ready to feel worthy again, to rummage through the shattered dream around me and try to salvage what has survived. Instead, I tell them about the conference. The shiny baubles and glittering excess of the rich, how I tried to fit into that fancy mold and how I kept fighting my imposter syndrome for the sake of Luke’s deal.

When I get to the part about leaving, all I can do is summarize because I can’t speak properly about the fissures of my heart: “A tragic situation of two worlds coming together, colliding, and then careening apart because we’re too different. I didn’t belong there. And he wouldn’t belong here.”

Uncle and my friends look at each other, but they don’t say anything as if I’m not ready to hear it.

This moment is about listening. And they do it so well.