I want to ask.Needto ask. But I don’t. The words catch in my throat, pressing against everything I don’t want to feel tonight. She’s an adult. She makes her own choices. And she knows exactly what that place is like. Whathe’slike.
Taylor sips her wine quietly, then asks, "When’s the big opening?"
"Saturday," I say, forcing a smile. My fingers tighten around the bell pepper, gripping it like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered to the ground.
Five more days.
My stomach twists, a slow, churning burn of anxiety. Ithasto go smoothly. Customershaveto show up. I’ve worked too damn hard for this, juggling three jobs, running on fumes, and pushing off sleep until I’m dead. I take a long swig of wine, trying to drown out the gnawing fear creeping in at the edges.
Ithasto be perfect.
But what if it’s not? What if all the years of grinding, sacrificing, and scraping byamount to nothing? I take another sip, quicker this time, shaking off the thought.
No. It’ll be fine. It has to be.
I mean,why wouldn’t it be?
Taylor continues swirling the wine in her glass, watching me. Then, with the same casual tone someone might use to discuss the weather, she asks, "Have you heard from Dad?"
My heart sinks like a stone, and my grip tightens on the knife as I dice the jalapeños. Dad is a topic I always try to avoid. I want to scream about him, rant about what a terrible parent he was and still is. I want to commiserate with theoneperson who actually understands. But instead, the room stays silent, the air perfectly still while my heart holds the thoughts close to my chest, refusing to let them be heard.
I don’t even know where he lives now. Vegas? Maybe near Parx in Philadelphia? Take your pick of any cheap, run-down apartments within walking distance of a casino, and there’s a solid chance he’s there. I clear my throat, forcing the words out. "He called me two days ago," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "Asking for money. Again."
Taylor sets her wineglass down and studies me. "What did you say?"
I shrug. "What could I say? I transferred him a few hundred dollars.” It was actually two thousand, enough to almost wipe out my savings account. But saying that number out loud might make me break out in hives. I don’t want to admit how embarrassing it is that he still asks, still expects me to fix his problems.
He was supposed to be getting his life together.
Taylor’s brows pinch in confusion. "That’s weird. He told me you refusedto give him anything."
I freeze.
Her voice drops into alow, deep rasp. "He said you hung up on him." She lets the words hang in the air, watching me, waiting for a reaction.
My jaw drops. How could he lie like that? And why the hell would Taylor believe him? "No," I say firmly. "That’s not what happened at all."
She crosses her arms, her expression curious. "Okay, then, how much did youreallygive him?"
I inhale slowly, trying to control the frustration bubbling up inside me. "Two thousand dollars," I say through clenched teeth. "And he had the audacity to tell you I gave himnothing." The anger simmers beneath my skin as I grab a pot, turn on the stove, and pour in some olive oil. "Why am I even surprised anymore?" I mutter, tossing in a handful of vegetables.
Taylor, unfazed, picks up a stray slice of jalapeño and pops it into her mouth. "You really didn’t have any more to give him?" she asks, her voice light, casual.
My shoulders tense.
"He owes me a hundred bucks," she continues, sighing likeshe’sthe one inconvenienced. "And I need it back. If you’d just given him a littlemore, I could’ve gotten my money too." She huffs, completely oblivious.
And just like that, the frustration turns into something heavy; something I can’t ever seem to shake off. Taylor has always felt this strange, deep-rooted sense of entitlement. Ever since her mother came knocking on my father’s door, she has acted as if everything should revolve around her, as if I owe her just as much as he does. Like my world hadn’t imploded when it all went down too.
But the difference between us? She still has her mother. I don’t even know if mine is still alive. I exhale sharply, trying to keep my voice steady. "I told him that every penny I have is tiedup in The Frosted Spoon. And how,how, is two thousand dollars not enough?"
Taylor shrugs, still completely unfazed. For her, it’s just another silly Dad thing. For me? It’s another reminder, a constant and exhausting struggle I face because of our father’s choices.
No, stop.
I refuse to let this visit spiral into family drama. Not now. Not when I’m days away from the grand opening of the bakery. I can’t afford to get sucked down into a dysfunctional family rabbit hole.
"Let’s not talk about him or money right now, okay?" I say, stirring the vegetables and keeping my tone deliberately light. "Let’s just enjoy our wine and talk about something nicer." I don’t want to think about how broke I am, how I’m still drowning in student loans, or how I’ve been working nonstop just to make ends meet—not just for myself, but for everyone else who always seems to need something from me.
