I wince as her words land, though I’ve heard versions of them before. No matter what I do, The Trunch will always find something to complain about when it comes to me. I don’t know why I bother at all, sometimes.
“I resolved everything,” I amend in what I hope is a pleasant tone, knowing I need to keep this job. At least until I find time to line something else up.
“I’m sure you did.” Her gaze flicks up to my face. “While that may be true for last week, you seem… out of sorts today.”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you?” She crosses her arms. “Because bad moods tend to show in performance, especially when people start getting the wrong kind of ideas.”
My stomach tightens.
“What kind of ideas?” Kara interrupts, unable to keep the edge out of her voice or mind her own business any longer.
Our boss smiles thinly. “The self-obsessed kind that come from being on TV.”
The floor threatens to drop out beneath me.
“I’m still doing my job,” I say carefully, choosing each word with precision. How have I gone from doing too much to doing not enough in a matter of seconds?
“For now,” she quips with a shrug. “But I’ve seen this before. People get a little attention, then think it means they’re special. Let me be very clear, Taylor. We uphold certain standards here. No exceptions.”
It’s impossible not to think of Alex’s hand under my chin, his voice steady as he reassured me I could make my dream come true. That my vision wasn’t silly or small. That he thinks Iamsome kind of special.
“This is real life,” The Trunch continues, cocking her hip. “Running a business takes dedication. We can’t all be out there playing around in a baking fantasyland.”
Kara’s jaw tightens. “That’s unnecessary.”
“Maybe. But, it’s true.”
She looks back at me, a cruel smirk curving her lips. “Focus on your calls, Taylor. This isn’t the place for daydreams.”
Then she turns and walks away, heels clicking sharply against the floor. I stare at my screen, the cursor blinking patiently, waiting.
She’s right. This isn’t a place for daydreams. It’s the abyss where dreams go to shrivel up and die.
Kara leans closer again. “She doesn’t get it.”
“Maybe she does.” My throat is tight. I swallow hard.
“No,” Kara says firmly. “She just doesn’t want you to want more. She clearly gave up on her own dreams a long time ago. Don’t let her get to you, okay? You’re doin’ the damn thing.”
The phone chimes, signaling an incoming call, and I slip my headset on, accepting it. My voice automatically smooths into something polite and pleasant.
But inside, everything feels off-balance.
Between calls, my mind drifts back to the kitchen. To flour-dusted counters and heated kisses. To the way Alex listened as I gushed over pink awnings and checkered floors like it wasn’t ridiculous to imagine something so vibrant.
My boss’s voice echoes faintly in my head, heavy and dismissive.
Focus on your calls, Taylor.
I glance down at my hands resting against the keyboard. The same hands that knead dough and shape pastries and ache in the best way after a long day in the kitchen. Hands that feel wrong typing repetitive responses into our system about strangers who will forget my name the second the call ends.
When my break finally comes, I stand and stretch, my spine cracking with every inch my hands rise above my head. Kara catches my eye and gives me a small, encouraging smile.
“You okay?” she asks.
“I think so,” I reply, though I’m not entirely sure.
