“Then go talk to your husband,” she said.
“No. I’m going to avoid him as long as possible. I did not appreciate his bearishness last night.”
“You’ll appreciate that bearishness later,” she muttered. “If I know his type—and I think I do—it will work out nicely for you.”
I slapped a hand over my eyes. “I should’ve called Audrey. She would’ve said I’m beautiful and perfect and told me how to make an anti-inflammatory smoothie to stop my skull from squeezing my brain so hard.”
“She would do that because she believes she can solve most problems with the use of kitchen equipment,” Jaime said. “I believe you can solve your problem with the use of your husband’s equipment and I think it’s nutty that you’re pretending otherwise.”
“He doesn’t want me,” I whispered, and those words pained me to articulate. There were so, so many people who didn’t want me and it hurt every time I found another to add to the list. “I know you disagree and I love that you’re cheering so hard but he’s not attracted to me. He isn’t. It took him a long time to warm up to me, and most days it seems like I get on his nerves or he can’t wait to get away from me. So much scowling and jaw clenching. He’s going to ruin his teeth if he keeps it up.”
“We’ll let his dentist worry about that.”
“When he does like me, it’s because we’re playing a part. It’s a game. And it doesn’t matter how I feel because it’s not going anywhere. Add to that the fact it’s ridiculous to call him my husband. He’s a guy I married so I could inherit a tulip farm that I don’t even know how to operate and he could expand his business. Nothing is happening between us.”
“You might be right,” she said after a moment. “But why would he get so upset about you being stranded at a random bar? Why would he call a sitter, go and pick you up at this bar, take you home, and then give you a talking-to about what he’ll allowhis wifeto do if nothing is happening? Is that how someone behaves when they can’t wait to get away from you?”
I stared at her for a minute, not knowing how to respond. Then, “I thought you said this wasn’t a Hallmark movie.”
She lifted her shoulders, let them fall. “It won’t be a Hallmark movie when you bang him. Those things never get past first base. One chaste kiss, end of story. Daddy Bread Baker won’t stop until that dough rises.”
“You have to stop calling him that,” I said. “And I don’t understand that metaphor. Am I the dough in this? Do I have to be the dough? That seems…unflattering.”
“I wonder,” she started, tapping a finger to her lips, “if the real issue is fully unrelated to your Daddy Bread Baker. I wonder if you’ve walled off everything relating to sexytimes and intimacy, and convinced yourself you’re not ready.”
“Of course I’m not ready,” I snapped. “I just got out of a long-term relationship that ended with me left at the altar.”
“Yes. He did that to you and it was awful. But when he left, he took himself away. He took a lot of important things but he didn’t take you. He didn’t take the best of you. I believe you’re more ready than you think,” Jaime said gently.
“I’m not sure,” I whispered.
“You will be,” she said. “Eventually.”
chaptereighteen
Noah
Students will be able to recognize and accept when they’ve lost.
“What the fuckis wrong with you?” I grumbled. “Why can’t you just fucking behave?”
The bowl of butter, sugar, and cocoa glared back in lumpy, petulant silence. The cake hadn’t betrayed me like this. The cake had been a simple matter of following the directions on the box. This was like a secret handshake.
I grabbed my phone and tapped the number for the bakehouse. It rang twice before the manager answered. “Little Star Bake Shop, you’ve got Nyomi.”
The offending bowl in hand, I cut a glance toward the stairs as I stepped into the pantry. “Ny, it’s not working. It looks like grout. Buttery grout.”
“Then add a dash of milk,” she replied.
“I added milk to the last batch and it’s”—I glanced at the bowl I’d hidden in here twenty minutes ago with disgust—“it’s a mudslide.”
“Sounds like you added more than a dash.”
“What—what is a dash, Ny? Quantify that for me.”
She hummed. “Probably an eighth of a cup. Not much more than that.” After a pause, she asked, “How much did you use?”
“I don’t know but I am out of confectioner’s sugar and I’m running out of time,” I said.
