Page 22 of Cakes for the Grump

I still have no idea what his deal is about. The mystery of it unfurls before me like a shadow full of cackling dangers. What if I actually help unleash something unforgivable upon the world?

It feels like a melodramatic concern, but it is not.

Men like him play chess on a board where stakes are worth more than money. Behind their deals are the faces of real people that are impacted. And I can’t ignore that truth because Luke dangles very appealing bait on the hook for me.

“What’s the hold-up?” he asks, visibly losing patience.

This is going to be very awkward to admit.

“I…ah…need to know you are a good person.”

“Iama good person.”

“No”—this is so cringe—“I need to know that in my heart.”

Luke’s mouth twitches harder. He looks like he is holding back aggressivelaughter but is trying hard to hide it because he doesn’t want any of this to go sideways for him.

“If you can’t tell me what exactly this deal is about,” I say, “then I need to believe in you instead. Which I don’t currently. Unfortunately.” My shoulders slump. “I’m sorry but I don’t think I can actually agree,” I say, and then, softly to myself,“Shit.”

Grief works its way through me. It pokes places inside me that I didn’t know had burgeoned with hope. It’s as if pulling off the contest challenge today—even barely—had sparked new resistance. For a very long time, I had truly felt there was a legitimate way forward to getting ahead in my career.

“I’m sorry—” I try again.

“Don’t be,” says Luke, not sounding bothered in the least. “The conference is in a few months. By then, I can prove to you I am a good person so that won’t be an issue.” He stretches his arms out on both sides. “Either way, you can have my kitchen and the raise. No strings attached.”

The smugness on his face soars to the loftiest heights. It says,see? I am a good and generous benefactor.

I frown.Is he seriously that confident?

“No strings attached?”

“No strings attached,” he repeats.

I don’t believe I am hearing this.

“Okay,” I say finally. “If you want to risk it, fine.”

That satisfies him enough that he stops leaning towards me. We exchange a few more barbs back and forth. I also stomach a few more bites of the chiffon cake to prove a point and because it is wasteful to throw all of it away, and then I take my leave. Satisfied and feeling curious as to what Luke Abbot can possibly do to prove to me that he is a passable human being worthy of friendship in the next few months.

Likely not much.

But hey, I’ve got his kitchen and a modicum bit more money, which means all my dinners don’t have to consist of rice and beans.

That’s a win, I decide, whistling my way home for once.

SEVEN

In an online statementposted on their social media account (which I followed promptly after submitting my Tandoori Mac ‘N’ Cheese), MealKit Masala announced they were overjoyed by the number of CUM submissions they have received, and that it will take them at least a few weeks to sort through it all and announce which cooks are moving forward to the next round of the competition.

This wait in judgment would normally have sent me straight into a cycle of convincing myself everything isgreat,and alearning experience,with me likewise also stressing over details like whether I’d put too much or too little turmeric in, if the pictures submitted did the Tandoori dish enough justice, and, of course, whether it was the correct dish to use altogether or not.

Thankfully, all of those tiring mental aerobics are greatly diminished because the grandest of all distractions enters my routine: Luke Abbot’s attempts at establishing friendship.

That next day at work when I walk into his kitchen, perched on the counter is a piece of paper folded in half with my name on it.

When I open it up, my eyebrows shoot up.

It’s an invitation to have a fully comped meal at a Michelin starred restaurant in the city.