Tasty (23 page)

“What
about the other day?” Ginny asks.

I
look up at her, lifting my eyebrows.

“You
didn’t rage and scheme when you had an issue with me. We had a
normal adult conversation. You know, like regular people.”

There’s
gentle laughter in her eyes. I don’t want to smile back, even
though I feel the corners of my mouth edging up. Because that talk
wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for Cal and his
meddling. At the time, I thought he was so wise. But how wise can he
be if he was lying to my face? I don’t know which parts of our
time together were real, and which were false. Maybe it was all a
lie, meant to make him look noble and good, meant to wear my
resistance down. So much for that gooey interior.

“He
doesn’t deserve a normal conversation,” I protest.
“Besides, anything I say might be used against me to ruin my
own freaking business.”

Ginny
purses her lips. It’s clear she doesn’t agree, but after
our talk, she’s not going to lecture me about staying calm. At
least, I hope she’s not. She’s just opening her mouth
when my phone vibrates in my pocket. I take it out. It’s Cal.

“Hold
on,” I say to Ginny as I answer. I’m careful to make my
voice flat and emotionless. I don’t want him to know how angry
I am, not yet. “ ’ello.”

“Hello,
love.” He sounds chipper and bright. “How was your day?”

“Fine,”
I say a little sharply. “It was fine, Cal. How was yours?”

“Wonderful.
I’ve something to tell you.”

Yeah,
I’ll bet he does. “Oh?” I ask.

“I
don’t want to talk about it on the phone. Dinner tonight,
yeah?”

I
press my lips together, looking at Ginny. She gives me an encouraging
nod. I sigh.

“Yeah,
sure. We might as well talk about it in person. The Swordfish Net,
right?”

“Yeah,
eight o’clock.”

“See
you then.”

“I
love you,” he says. I don’t say anything, only hang up
the phone and then hold my head in my hands.

“Everything
okay?” Ginny asks, putting her hand gingerly on my leg again. I
groan into my palms.

“He
wants to talk to me in person. Ugh, I hate confrontation. I hate
him.
I
swear to god, Gin, this is why I don’t date chefs. They’re
all such liars.”

“Remember,
you can talk it out.”

“Yeah,
yeah,” I say. I stand up, giving my head a sad shake. “I
need to go get ready for my execution. Thanks for the tea.”

By
now, Luke’s returned, standing in the doorway. Ginny’s
looking at him, her gaze meaningful. Then they both glance at me
together. They’re practically a collective noun these days. Two
bodies, the same fretful, concerned look barely hidden beneath their
attractive faces.

“Good
luck,” they both say in unison, as I head for the door.

#

I
don’t bother dressing up for my “date” with Cal.
What’s the point? We’re probably just going to have a
screaming match, then break up, anyway. It’s how it’s
always gone for me. Why should this guy be any different? I wear my
old blue jeans, still dusty with flour from the store, and a plain
old T-shirt. But Cal doesn’t even seem to notice when he meets
me by the door of the Swordfish Net. It’s a pretty classy
place—dim lighting, modern fixtures, white table cloths and a
candle on every table—but then, he’s dressed down, too,
in his usual jeans, white T-shirt, and flannel on top. You wouldn’t
even know he was a celebrity if it weren’t for that special
shine behind his smile, like he’s been polishing his teeth
between takes. I do my best to ignore the way my stomach squeezes
when he puts a hand on my arm, leans down, and kisses me briefly. I
hate that my stomach still flutters when he touches me. I want this
to be easy, clean. But I have a feeling it’s not going to be.

“I’m
so glad to see you,” he says. He sounds like he means it. But
what do I know? I’m always falling for liars.

Evie
got us the best table for our reservation, a balcony seat overlooking
the ocean. Gulls dart overhead. The waves roll and churn in the
distance. It’s a cool night, clear and sparkly. Cal’s
face is warmly lit by lanterns that sway in the breeze. It’s
all so beautiful and perfect and I hate every second, even when Evie
brings us by free appetizers—bacon-wrapped scallops, my
favorite.

“Here
you go. On the house for my favorite bakers,” she says
cheerfully, but then she catches my expression, puts down the plate,
and scurries away. Cal looks confused, especially when I don’t
dive right in. Usually, my hunger is insatiable. But tonight I only
poke at them with my fork, scowling.

“You
don’t seem to be yourself,” Cal says.

“I
could say the same for you,” I mutter.

Cal
stares at me, his laser green eyes burning.

“What’s
wrong?”

“I
don’t know. You could be a celebrity chef with a culinary
empire bent on destroying your average small-town bakery or just a
regular guy messing around with a pop-up store. There’s no
telling.”

Cal
digs into the scallops with one of those tiny forks. His eyebrows are
lightly lifted, like he’s being careful about everything he
says.

“I
have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’m
talking about your future, and how it will impact me. I have a right
to know, Cal.”

“A
right to know
what
?
You’re being paranoid, Juliette.”

Paranoid
.
Fuck, I’ve heard that one before. There have been times in the
past when men have convinced me their bad behavior was all in my
head. Not this time, though. When I reply, my words are firm.

“I’m
not.”

“Come
on. It’s a beautiful night. Our food is delicious. Why are you
picking a fight with me?”

This
is ridiculous. Sitting here with Cal, trying to dance around the
subject of his store. Maybe Ginny’s right. Maybe I just need to
be direct. I let out a sigh.

“Cal,
I know that Mecca Cakes isn’t just a pop-up. I know it’s
permanent. Hell, I know you’re
expanding
.”

Cal
stares at me, mouth full of scallops. I see his Adam’s apple
bob as he swallows, hard.

“You
do?”

“I
ran into Angelique at the store. She told me all about it. Not sure
how I’m going to manage to drum up any business at all now that
you’re going permanent, but I guess that doesn’t concern
you.”

Cal
lifts up his cloth napkin and dabs at his mouth. Then he takes a
drink of water. He’s really taking his time with whatever it is
he’s about to say.

But
when he swallows, he’s smiling, a broad, genuine smile.

“Juliette,”
he says, “that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. It’s
why I’ve been in meetings all week.”

“So
talk, Callum,” I say, my voice full of hurt.

He
looks surprised by the emotion in my voice. But let him be surprised.
I deserve answers. He shrugs sheepishly. His expression looks a
little puppyish as he responds. It would warm the cockles of my heart
if they weren’t already sizzling hot, not with affection, but
with anger.

“We’re
expanding Mecca Cakes. Key West is going to be my flagship. That’s
why I’m having Luke build me a house down here. Anyway, you
don’t have to worry about your store. Believe me, I’ve
been thinking plenty about the impact this will have on your
business. And I’ve decided that we should merge.”

His
words are too absurd for me to process right away. He can’t
really be suggesting what I think he is, can he?

“What
do you mean?”

“I
thought it would be a relief to you not to have to worry about your
store’s bottom line anymore. Or the competition. We can work
together—”

“What,
as a counter girl?”

“No,”
Cal says, shaking his head. “As executive chef. Juliette, I
thought you’d be pleased.”

I
throw my napkin down on the table. The other patrons are looking now,
and trying to look like they’re not. I don’t care. Let
them look. “I’d be your employee, Cal. Did you really
think I’d be honored?”

“We’d
be working together. I love cooking with you.”

I
hesitate at that. I’d loved cooking with him, too. Loved doing
plenty of things with him. Loved laughing with him, being fucked by
him. But that doesn’t make this right. I love owning my own
store. I can’t go back to fucking my boss.

“You
have no right to decide what I do with my business, Callum McKenzie.
I’m not on your payroll yet.”

I
see the woman at the next table lean over and whisper something to
her date. But it’s a stage whisper. Her voice can be heard even
over the ocean’s hiss.

“
That’s
Callum McKenzie?” she says in disbelief. Something in Cal’s
eyes changes then. A moment ago, he was sweet, even hopeful that I’d
love his plan to throw Rock N Roll Cakes under the bus. Now, he’s
tuned out, every bit the celebrity who is trying to avoid public
scrutiny and gossip blogs. He carefully puts down his fork.

“Juliette
. . .” he begins softly. I cross my arms over my chest.

“What,
Cal?”

“Let’s
go outside to talk about this.” His gaze is firm, commanding.
I’m determined not to give in. But then he adds, “Please?”

With
a scowl, I follow him out to the beach.

Some
nights, living right up next to the water is romantic, like something
out of a movie or childhood dream. Others, I can’t stand all
the salt in the air and sand tangled up in my hair, the heat and the
tourists and the seagulls fighting over trash. Today is the latter.
The beach leaves me empty as I sit beside Cal on a rock jetty,
listening to him try to defend himself.

“I
don’t understand what the problem is here,” he says, for
what feels like the fortieth time. “You get what you want, I
get what I want . . . ”

“I
get what I want?” I sputter. “You didn’t even ask
me what I wanted! If you had, I would have told you. I’ve
fought all my life for Rock N Roll Cakes. It’s not some stupid
franchise
.
It’s my heart and soul.”

“I
thought you’d be happy,” Cal says hopelessly. God, that
makes me even angrier. I stand up on the algae-slick rocks and start
walking toward the shore.

“Wait!”
Cal calls. I stop and look over my shoulder at him. He looks pained.
Really, genuinely pained. “I don’t know what I’m
supposed to do, Juliette. I was trying to do the right thing here, to
make sure I didn’t leave you without a livelihood.”

“You
were
supposed
to close up shop here at the end of the week. I mean, what the hell,
Cal? Did you really think I wouldn’t find out the truth? Why
even bother lying about that?”

“It
wasn’t a lie. I had no way of knowing if the shop would be
profitable. The plans were to always leave if it wasn’t.”

“You
should have told me that. I would have been understanding. I get that
business is uncertainty.” That’s it. My voice breaks. My
emotions spill over. Cal scrambles to stand, and rushes toward me.
But I don’t want him touching me. This is already hard enough
without my crazy libido coming into play. I
don’t
want to be distracted. “You should have told me the whole
story, Cal. I have a right to decide my own future without some man
interfering with it.”

“You
have to understand,” Cal says insistently, but I don’t
know if he’s trying to convince me or to convince himself.
“There was nothing else for me to do. There’s not room in
Key West for two signature bakeries. One of us had to lose. You said
it yourself. Business is uncertainty. Plans change. My investors
wanted to keep Mecca Cakes open. It’s too profitable, and they
didn’t think some little bakery should stand in their way.”

“Some
little bakery?” I don’t even have it in me to shout the
words. They fall, heavy as lead, from my mouth. Then they hover there
in between us. There it is, the truth about how Cal feels about me
and my life’s work. I’m nothing to him, an insignificant
small fry. If he can’t respect Rock N Roll Cakes, then he’ll
never respect me.

“Those
were their words, not mine,” he says bleakly. But it doesn’t
matter. He’s said them. And I get the feeling that he didn’t
argue with them when
they
called it that, either.

I
turn away from him. For a moment, I just look out into the churning
ocean. I feel angry. Confused. Upset. But I tell myself that it’s
not worth it. He’s not worth it.

“Goodbye,
Cal,” I say, in a calm, small voice, as I walk away from the
sea, away from our future together, away from him.

Cal
doesn’t follow.

Cherry
Garcia. Chocolate rum ripple. Long rolls of Pillsbury cookie dough,
eaten raw with a spoon. Funfetti icing with Teddy Grahams stirred in.
For the next six days, these are my closest friends. I tell Summer
I’m sick and ask her to cover for me at the store. Then I hole
up in my apartment with those chocolate-dipped Entenmann's donuts and
an igloo’s worth of gallons of Publix Key lime frozen yogurt,
the kind with the graham crackers mixed right in. Sure, it’s
not gourmet cuisine. My usual binges are decadent bean-to-bar dark
chocolate and pound cake as dense and as sweet as you can make it.
But that kind of stuff—homemade, fancy, rich—reminds me
way too much of
him
.

I
don’t Google him, or talk about him, or say his name to anyone.
When my parents call me up for our Sunday evening chat, I pretend
that everything is fine. I let Ginny’s calls go to voicemail,
and Evie’s, too. Then I start Netflix binging.
Buffy
,
then
Angel
,
then even the first few episodes of
Firefly
until I decide that Captain Tightpants is a little too cocky, a
little too familiar. That’s when I switch to sitcoms. I wrap
myself in old episodes of
Friends
,
warm and fluffy as a winter blanket. Or a well-worn flannel shirt,
like the ones that Cal always wore.