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That’s her fucking grandson,” Gideon fumes. “What the hell did she do, bake the pie herself and give it to him? No way did he make that. He’s a jock, played college football.”

“Doesn’t matter.” I sniff and think to myself, of course you lost. You flew to Montana and spent the last of your money on this. You’re toast.

I can see the headline now: Disgraced Chicago Baker Loses Small-Town Pie Contest Despite Bribery Scandal. The word “despite” stings worst. As if I expected small-town charity. As if I thought a man buying Mamma Mia tickets could fix what I broke all by myself.

Gideon’s family turns to me, with I’m sorrys and faces full of shock. I wave them off with a stiff fake smile and a no problem. It’s fine. It’s just the way the cookie crumbles, just like my heart.

Around us the room bursts into applause and whoops for the winners. Clara reaches over to give my hand a solemn, sad squeeze. Sierra and Lyssa seem like they’re on the verge of tears. Gideon is quiet and still. Very still.

I force myself to grin and slam my two palms together. I can do this. I can clap. I’m very good at coming off like a person who can take defeat with grace, and it comes in handy in moments like this.

Then I excuse myself and head to the coat hallway because if I stay in this chair a minute longer, I’ll do something stupid like cry.

The small vestibule smells like wet wool and cider as I plop myself down on a folding chair and check my messages.

Maya:

How did it go? I keep refreshing my browser and can’t find the results. Tell me you have a ribbon.

I swipe to a message from my agent:

Call me when you get this.

Then a notification from my calendar pings, reminding me the rent is due.

Nice. This contest was my last shot, and I have to force my chin to stop wobbling. The publisher wanted a title. My agent wanted a call after a win. Now he probably wants nothing to do with me.

The money is gone. My career is finished. I’ll have to move out of the apartment, unless I borrow from my parents. All I have left to my name are the tickets to get me home and a lie I told an entire town about a ring and a fiancé that don’t exist.

I put the phone face down on my knee and fix my gaze at the opposite wall until the cinderblock blurs. I close my eyes, drop my head, and feel the tears pressing hard behind my eyes.

“Lila,” Gideon finds me. How does he always seem to show up when I need him the most? He glances at my face and the phone, squats to my eye level, and wraps his arms around me. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.” He caresses my back, doing his best to soothe me, and God knows, it helps.

“They sabotaged you,” he says in a deep, lethal voice, over the leftover applause leaking through the door. “I must be a mark to all the geriatric women in this town. They played me for a fool. What the hell?”

“You really tried,” I say, in a haggard voice that sounds like it belongs to someone else. “You really believed tickets and a story would fix everything.”

“I thought—”

“I know what you were thinking.” I pull my coat tighter. “You thought wanting it would be enough. That the judges would feel it and do the rest. But that isn’t how it works.”

His expression changes as if I wounded him. “That’s not what I was doing.”

“Then explain it to me.”

He doesn’t answer. Through the open door, the winner is holding up his ribbon and crying, and I hate him for a second, and then I hate myself for hating him.

“I can’t breathe in here,” I blurt. “And it isn’t just about the ribbon. It’s everything. My agent, my apartment … I spent the last of what I had to get here. I have no cushion, Gideon, and no idea what to do next.”

He takes hold of my hands and draws me to my feet. “Step one. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Chapter twelve

I help her with her coat and slip Lila through the side door before Mrs. Helmsley takes the mic and thanks the sponsors.

The cold hits me like a fucking slap. I’m pissed the judges would pull this kind of crap on her. This was her only fucking lifeline. She worked so hard just for the chance to redeem herself after someone else trashed her career. None of this is Lila’s fault. I feel like tearing down all the banners, the constant reminders surrounding us as the roar of yet more applause seeps through the doors of the community center.

Lila lets go of my arm, bends, and takes off her shoes. She stands barefoot on the frozen sidewalk, holding them by the straps like they’re dead rats.