He sighs, and some of the tension drains from his body. “Why are you crying?”
“I don’t know.”
Except I do know. It’s everything. The walk-in cooler with its perfect temperature regulation, the professional gas range with its heavy cast-iron grates, never having to stress about fucking up an order because my oven is being a temperamental bitch.
It’s real. I did this.
Cameron doesn’t call me out on my very obvious lie. Instead, he holds me as I let everything go.
“I’m happy,” I manage, wiping at my face, probably smearing mascara everywhere. “And terrified. And so fucking overwhelmed I can barely breathe. But mostly happy. Is that a normal number of emotions to feel at once?”
He moves a hand under my chin, tilting my face up so I’m forced to look into his eyes. “This is a big deal, so yes.”
“I promise I’m not usually this much of a disaster.” I let out a watery laugh. “Okay, maybe I am, but it usually doesn’t involve crying.”
He brushes a stray tear from my cheek with the pad of his thumb, and the gesture sends a jolt of warmth through me. “You’re not a disaster and you never have to apologize for beinghuman and having feelings. You’ve spent years working your ass off and now you’re ready to go.” He pauses, letting the words sink in. “That’s terrifying.”
“It’s lonely,” I admit, my voice coming out smaller than I intended, more vulnerable than I want to be.
I love what I do with every fiber of my being: the early mornings, the precision, the way a recipe clicks into place after the fifth attempt and some stern words to my whisk. I wouldn’t change any of it.
But sometimes when I’m up at two in the morning prepping dough, I think about my friends who can simply leave work at work. Who have coworkers to eat lunch with. Who can make happy hour plans without having to confirm they don’t have three custom cake orders due Friday.
I chose this, and I’ll keep choosing it, but fuck if the weight of doing it alone doesn’t pull me down sometimes. And not just physically, but professionally. I don’t have anyone to bounce ideas off in real time, a teammate or confidant who understands why I’m stressed about whether I should raise prices or how the hell to respond to a weird email from a potential wholesale client.
I’m not unhappy, but I can’t deny that I wish I had a support system at the ready instead of having to actively seek one out when I’m at the end of my rope.
“I get it,” he replies slowly. “Not a lot of people to share the pressure with.”
The tightness in my chest loosens at his words. He doesn’t try to fix the issue or minimize it or tell me it’ll get easier. He just… sees it. Sees me. And maybe that’s all I need. Someone to acknowledge that yes, this is hard, and yes, I’m doing it anyway.
I nod, exhausted from my unexpected outburst. “Thank you.”
I don’t specify for what—for going to MetroMart with me, for the hug, for the understanding, for making me feel seen—and he doesn’t ask me to.
“If it makes you feel any better, I’ve seen a lot of meltdowns in the locker room,” he says. “Jake once cried because someone ate his postgame sandwich.”
I pull back slightly, wiping under my eyes so I don’t give full wild raccoon vibes. “Really?”
“Someone, a.k.a. Logan, even though he won’t admit it, ate his corned beef sandwich from Goldblatt’s. It wasn’t in the fridge after we lost, and Jake went postal.”
A laugh bubbles up before I can stop it, and soon I’m giggling at the thought of Sophie’s crush sobbing over a sandwich. It’s exactly what I need. A distraction to pull me back from the edge of my emotions and to remind me that crying doesn’t have to be this big, heavy thing.
Cameron cups my face, his gaze searching mine. “You good?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. I’m going to unload the rest of the stuff.” He nods to the box on the counter. “Do you want to start organizing in the meantime?”
“I can help bring stuff in.”
“No offense, but you struggled to lift a ten-pound bag of flour.” He steps back and winks. “You’d be more of a hindrance than a help.”
With another laugh, I wipe the last of the tears away. Cameron’s already focused on the task at hand. Handling the moment with ease, making me feel like falling apart every once in a while is okay, and maybe a little necessary.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
cameron
