“I didn’t even change,” I say thickly, motioning to my flour-dusted clothes. “I walked in, grabbed my bags, and left. I didn’t say goodbye to anyone. I just… left.”
Kara pulls back enough to look at me, thumb swiping under one of my eyes. “Good. Dramatic exits are necessary sometimes.”
A watery laugh slips out of me.
She nudges the paper bag toward me with her foot. “Come on. I brought carnitas. And that ridiculously expensive wine you pretend you can taste notes in.”
“Icantaste notes,” I sniff.
“Babe, you once described a wine as ‘purple’ and ‘grapey’.”
“Itwas‘purple’ and ‘grapey’.”
She huffs, looping her arm through mine and steering me toward the door. “Inside. Shoes off. You’re telling me everything from the top. And if he’s as dumb as your text made him sound, I reserve the right to hate him indefinitely.”
It takes only moments for us to settle in my living room, wine glasses full and still-warm carnitas piled onto plates.
“Okay, girl,” Kara says, kicking her feet up on my coffee table before taking a gulp of wine. “You have your wine. You have your food. Out with it.”
The melt-in-your-mouth shreds dance a symphony of flavor over my tongue as I chew, wondering where to begin. Because the truth is, while I’m upset that Alex didn’t tell me everything sooner, I’m also just exhausted.
The competition is coming to an end. There are only a couple of bakes left. The pressure of my schedule is relentless.
I work all week, practice when I can, and bake under extreme pressure all weekend. Finding out that Alex may have been pretending for the cameras this entire time was just the final straw.
The proverbial icing on the cake.
I blow out a slow breath before turning to my best friend and recounting the entire interaction. Every word, every look, every awful, twisting second of it comes tumbling out. Kara doesn’t interrupt. She just listens, humming softly when I falter, refilling my wine glass without asking.
She takes a second before speaking.
“Okay,” she says carefully. “First of all? Your feelings are valid. Like, aggressively valid.”
I pause mid-sip, eyeing her over the rim of my glass. She isn’t as angry as she should be. She isn’t gearing up to eviscerate him. That alone makes me suspicious.
“But,” she continues gently, “he had an agreement in place before he ever met you, right? With his family? With the restaurant group?”
I nod in answer.
“And if he broke that, he risked his dad pulling funding.”
Another nod. I don’t like where this is going.
She studies me for a moment, like she’s choosing her next words carefully.
“I’m not saying he handled it perfectly. He absolutely should’ve told you sooner. I’m not defending that part.”
She squeezes my hand.
“But Tay… if someone walked up to you tomorrow and offered to bankroll your dream bakery—the storefront, the equipment, the staff, literally everything—and all you had to do was keep your last name quiet and win over an audience?”
Her brows lift when I don’t answer.
“You’re really going to sit there and tell me you wouldn’t at least consider it?”
I narrow my eyes at her. “Whose side are you on?”
“Yours,” she says immediately. “Always yours. But being on your side doesn’t mean I let you rewrite the story into something it’s not.”
