Patton: Should I prepare for epic embarrassment?
Me: You were a very cute five-year-old firefighter.
Patton: Cute? Not brawny or brave? I’m going to need you to delete that.
Me: Never. This is leverage.
Patton: For what?
Me: I’ll let you know when I need to cash it in.
I’m grinning at my phone when Grandma Joyce clears her throat. “That’s him, isn’t it?”
“What? No. I mean—” I give up. “Yes.”
“Thought so. You get that same look your mother used to get when your father would call her from overseas before he moved here.” She pats my hand. “But until your phone beeped, you looked worried.”
Because I’m keeping secrets. Because there’s a bet I never should have made. Because my family’s restaurant is circling the drain, I can’t fix it, and I’m terrified of disappointingeveryone.
“Tired.” It’s not a lie.
I can tell she doesn’t believe me by the way her eyebrows raise.
“Go to bed early, get some rest. Whatever is on your mind will still be there in the morning.” My grandmother is an early-to-bed, early-to-rise person.
However, instead of going to sleep, I remain in Grandma’s kitchen, torn between packing the suitcase in the back of my closet, then taking a long drive out of town, and … baking.
I’m like Gretel, wandering through the woods, following a breadcrumb trail. Instead of leading to a cottage belonging to a wicked witch, in this fairytale, I’m comfy and cozy in my beloved grandmother’s home.
The unknown lurks outside and looks remarkably handsome. But what if one day he realizes that I’m just another person who needs saving and he’s been loving me out of duty rather than desire?
Glimpsing a photo of my grandparents on their wedding day, I’m reminded that’s not what love is.
Taking a deep breath, I tell myself the oven will take the chill out of the air. At this elevation, we’re between seasons. Winter hasn’t entirely released its icy grip as spring tries to stake its claim.
I find both Grandma Joyce’s and Judy’s brownie recipes and set them on the counter side by side. I devise a plan to put their battle to bed once and for all—and yes, I’m well aware that I should also be fast asleep.
Judy’s salted caramel version is on the left. My grandmother’s cream cheese swirl is on the right. I make both simultaneously because I can’t lie in bed with my thoughts playing on a loop.
The restaurant closure looms in my mind like a storm cloud.Fab’s calls, his desperate tone. My bank account is laughably inadequate. My parents, blissfully unaware that their daughter has been secretly trying—and failing—to save them.
I decide to make a third batch and add mint chips—an homage to the peppermint cocoa Patton made me. At least I can control brownie recipes, even if I can’t control anything else in my life.
After I set the oven timer, I start to clean up.
“Vincenza Sorrentino, what on earth are you doing?” Grandma Joyce stands in the doorway in her bathrobe, hair in curlers, looking thoroughly alarmed.
I jump, nearly dropping a mixing bowl as I bring it to the sink. “Testing recipes, um, for the Fireman’s Ball dessert station.”
She moves closer, peering at the counter. Her eyes narrow. “Is that Judy’s recipe?”
“And yours. I’m making both.”
“You’re makingherrecipe?” The betrayal in her voice would be funny if I weren’t so exhausted. “Under my roof?”
“Grandma—”
“I thought we had an understanding, young lady.”
