Without a smile or a thank-you, she turned and swished out of the kitchen, leaving Erik alone in the kitchen that he’d made his own. He might actively dislike his boss, but he loved this place: the spotless ovens, the industrial fridge full of creative possibilities, the shelves lined with baking staples and rarities.
An odd, energizing melancholy swept through him. He knew what he had to do. It’d be hard as fuck, but it was the right thing. He’d been ignoring his conscience for too long, and it was finally time.
A glance at today’s task sheet confirmed that one thing at least was going his way. He crammed the paper into the back pocket of his jeans, then slipped his apron over his head and hung it on the hook on the wall for the last time. Shoving the few personal items scattered throughout the kitchen into his backpack, he took one more look around the place that had given him his break in the big city. Then with a long sigh, he slung the bag over his shoulder and pushed through the door.
Dora was shifting tables to prep for the next batch of tasters due in later that morning. Good luck to her with that. “Are the rest of today’s samples ready?” she asked.
He gestured behind him to the kitchen, where he’d left a neat row of glossily iced cakes. “Done. Along with this weekend’s orders.”
She nodded absently, not glancing up from the chairs she was nudging into precise right angles. “Good. Carla and Chuck will handle the setup.”
He walked to the exit, more certain about his decision with each step. The dread was still there of course, but he needed to do his part tohandle it,as the shouty redhead might say. “Cakes for the next two weeks are in the freezer for you to decorate.”
Thatgot her attention. Her head snapped up, and her mean little eyes zeroed in on his face. “What do you mean? Where are you going? I didn’t authorize vacation.”
“I quit.” No take backs now. Those two little words were both horrifying and freeing, like that moment of suspended euphoria when you jump off a cliff but before gravity grabs your ankle and drags you to your doom.
“What?”Dora screeched. “Not funny, Erik. Get back to the kitchen. We have people due in thirty minutes.”
If he wasn’t all twisted into anxious knots, he might have enjoyed the utter confusion on her face when he didn’t leap to obey. Too bad for her if she was only now noticing that her baker had a mind of his own.
“You can’t just quit like this.” She started sputtering. “It’s… it’s irresponsible. It’s unprofessional!”
He paused with his hand on the doorknob and studied her with all the compassion she’d shown anyone different from her—which was to say none. “I’m ashamed that I stayed as long as I did.” Then he voiced a suspicion that had occurred to him more than once since he’d started working at the Cake Shoppe. “Were you ever really planning to retire and let me take over?”
Her eyes narrowed, confirming his darkest thoughts. She’d been stringing him along, and he’d been so hungry for the promise of a safe future that he’d let it happen.
“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “I’m leaving before that meteor hits.”
Dora’s face registered a moment of blank shock before twisting in anger. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re quitting the best job you’ll ever have over…those people?”
His jaw worked silently as he gathered the control he’d need to speak civilly. “People like my best friend, you mean? And the pastry chef who trained me?” Her face hardened with each word, but he pushed past his disgust to continue. “Or how about my favorite high school teacher? Our city’s mayor? The guy who just left here? And what about every single couple you’ve turned away that I don’t even know about? Hellyes,I’m quitting.”
The guilt and discomfort he’d been shoving down for months came boiling out, and his rush of words still hung in the air as he pushed open the door and walked out, the tinkle of the bell clashing with the painful throb of his heart as he took his first steps into an unknown future.
He’d made it close to three blocks before his pulse slowed and his legs stopped devouring the pavement. He’d paused in front of an empty CTA bus bench, so he sat down. Well, collapsed, more accurately. Now that he was clear of Dora, every cell in his risk-averse body was screaming in disbelief. He was alone in Chicago with no job and no prospects on the horizon.
What the fuck had he just done?
He slumped forward to rest his head in his hands, and for a moment he was ten years old again and being tossed around during a rootless, chaotic childhood. The acid churning in his stomach reminded him of the promise he’d made to himself all those years ago: he would never again be unsure of where he’d be sleeping that night and what he’d be doing the following day. For all her vast flaws, Dora had always provided him with that.
He pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled slowly. Okay, it wasn’t as bad as it could be. When he’d first come to this unfamiliar city, he’d dragged himself to every restaurant and bakery in the area, forcing himself to make small talk with strangers until he’d landed the job with Dora. Finding work hadn’t killed him then, and it wouldn’t kill him now. Probably. At least he knew a few more people in the industry this time, and he had the Cake Shoppe’s recent track record to point to, assuming Dora didn’t poison his reputation all over town.
“Fuck,” he said softly. The Cake Shoppe’s success had been the result of his unique flavors and decorative flourishes, and he was well aware of the value he brought to the kitchen. But even the thought of having to prove all that to a new boss settled heavy on his bones. He leaned back against the bench, closed his eyes, and tilted his face toward the morning sun.
Two paths branched in front of him. One was slow and steady and safe. The other required risk and uncertainty. And he had to choose.
If only it were a few years from now and he was in a better position to open his own shop. If he’d spent more time researching possible locations. If he were an entirely different person who had any kind of handle on marketing and publicity and all the nonbaking things it took to get a new business off the ground.
Pointless fantasies, boy. His grandfather’s warning rang in his head so clearly the scowling man might as well be sitting on the bench next to him. And in the end, it wasn’t a choice; he’d been opting for safe ever since his mother had dropped him at Pops’s door, a scrawny kid with a dirty face and an empty belly, desperate for discipline and boundaries.
Time to push aside his dream and make the rounds of the area bakeries again. The faster he locked down his next job, the better he’d sleep at night and the sooner he’d know what he’d be doing the next day. At least he had one lead.
He reached into his back pocket to retrieve the crumpled paper with one crucial notation on it:Saturday, 8 a.m., followed by a phone number but no name. Shit.
He heaved a breath, dialed, and braced himself. He hated phone calls in general, but this one was infinitely worse because the train redhead was the kind of confident, fashionable woman who left him even more tongue-tied than usual. He listened to the phone ring and willed himself not to think about the light, citrusy smell of her hair, which had lingered like a phantom the whole train ride home last night.
“This is Josie.” The voice on the other end of the phone was crisp and professional and nothing like the confrontational tone he was expecting.
