Chapter 3
Iconcoct three ginger cookie recipes incorporating trendy food items. I try Greek yogurt in one, avocados in another, and for the final batch, I try incorporating a vanilla protein drink into the dough.
I feel myself working on autopilot.
It’s like that for me in the kitchen. I know ingredients—flavors, textures, and the properties that help or hinder a dish. I know which ingredients are best friends and which are mortal enemies. I even know how to make some enemies play nice with just the right balance or twist.
But not today. For some reason, everything I know is absent, and I’m a bumbling beginner at a bake-off. Sure, I panic under pressure. I realize that’s probably all this is, but my inner voice says I’ve lost the magic for good.
It's the same voice that keeps replaying Nellie's suggestion that I reach out to Jude. I’m not considering it, but the mere idea makes my insides split wide open; I’m so desperate to piece myself back together that I don’t have space for anything else.
I sample the cookies before my company arrives.
The one with Greek yogurt is a six out of ten.
I’m not surprised. I bite into the avocado one next.
The texture turned out all right, but the greenish-brown tint is less than appealing, and it needs…
something. My eyes go wide as I recognize exactly what it needs.
“I forgot the salt?” I shout incredulously over the Christmas tunes.
“Huh. I might as well go back to my eighth-grade foods class at this point.”
I bite into the last one, which is also the prettiest since I dunked half in dark chocolate before sprinkling crushed candy canes over the top. Sadly, it’s the worst one yet. I shiver. “Three out of ten.”
I toss the cookie in the trash and, since I’m already talking to myself, make a random declaration that even I don’t see coming. “I’m checking his profile.”
A rush of adrenaline surges through me as I grab my phone, open the social media app, and type Jude Sting into the search bar.
I’m not sure what’s gotten into me; I’ve resisted this urge for four-and-a-half months.
The last time I looked was on August 3rd, Jude’s birthday.
He’d been tagged by his mother in a trip to Sydney—a trip I’d been planning to go on too.
I hesitate as I stare at the search bar. Do I really want to do this? I know I’ll be stuck on clean-up duty—desperately working to flush the new Jude details out of my head.
I tap the arrow with my thumb and brace myself—muscles tight, breath hitched, eyes half closed in case I don't like what I see.
Aw, crap! I hate what I see. The image is like eye-acid that plunges straight to my heart. The top post is of Jude with Lisa Lynn, the owner of Organic Goods. I know Lisa. I like Lisa. At least, I used to.
Her face is squished against the side of Jude’s stubbled jaw as they pose for the selfie. They’re at a charity banquet; Lisa tagged him, which means she’s the one who posted it.
Nausea shudders through me. I plop the phone face down on the counter while jagged breaths heave from my chest. "I deserved that,” I decide.
The music in the room fades—the corners of my vision blur. I can’t believe he's dating already. Sure, it’s been the better part of a year, but still…I figured he was hoping to reconcile like I was.
Of course, with each day, it feels less and less likely. Each month, it grows harder to consider sending him the text I always thought I would, one that owns up to my part of things while inviting him to fess up to his. I was going through Hades, as no-swearing Nellie might say.
Still, I’m the greater offender. I’m the one whose pride was too big to swallow. I should have reached out right away. Or at least a day or two after it all went down. I meant to.
A loud knock sounds, followed by Nellie's classic front door request. "Let me in!"
Great. If I thought I was off balance before, it's a million times worse now. I let Nellie in, followed by Mr. Bruce, who doesn't come with his cat after all.
"Jinxy’s getting measured for his new Christmas duds," he tells us.
I escort them to the bar and wave toward the samples. “Cookie one, two, and three,” I say without the slightest bit of fanfare.
They look at each other, look at the cookies, and then drag one of each onto their plates.
“How ya doing?” Nellie asks me.
Sometimes, faking a smile feels like crawling through death’s door. “Fine. Which one do you guys like best?”
This makes them look down at their plates again.
I’m normally not such a terrible host, but in the spirit of Don’t-Swear-December, let me say crap is going down in my life right now.
I’ve been hurled into a state of panic that might rob me of my dream job, and I just found out that my beautiful Aussie ex is dating some stupid… dummy-faced…selfie-at-a-banquet taker.
Yeah, it’s for charity, so stop tooting your own horn. Get over yourself, Lisa, you self-righteous twit. ‘Oh, look at me with America’s hottest chef. Look how cute we are together.’
“Um…” Nellie raises a hand. “What’s with the face?”
“The face?” I ask, working to change mine. “I’m not making a face.”
“You’re sort of making a face,” Mr. Bruce says.
“There’s no sort of about it,” Nellie says. “You’re ticked off, tiger.”
“Tiger?”
Nellie rolls her eyes. “Just tell us what’s wrong.”
So, I do. I tell them about the post and gripe about how annoying it is while fully aware that I have no legs to stand on because I’m the one who pushed Jude away.
Nellie hugs me. “Forget Jude. I’m sorry for bringing him up today. You don’t need him to get this job.”
“Agreed,” Mr. Bruce says, eyeing the cookies on his plate.
Nellie glances at her phone which reminds me that she has a date tonight.
“Well,” I say, nodding at the cookies. “Let’s hear what you guys think.”
They bite into the Greek yogurt one first.
"Interesting," Mr. Bruce says, smacking his lips.
Nellie wordlessly abandons it after one bite and reaches for the avocado cookie. I don’t bother telling them it’s saltless; it would take the fun out of it.
Her gaze darts about the room as she chews, chews some more, then eventually swallows with a sharp punch to her chest. She reaches for the chocolate-dipped disaster at the end with ill-fated enthusiasm that fades as the cookie nears her lips.
I stifle a laugh because I actually see fear in her eyes.
At last, Nellie nibbles the chocolate dipped side, shrugs, then takes a bigger bite beyond the glaze. Her lips curl, her face pinches, and she yanks a napkin off the counter in time to spit into it.
Mr. Bruce quietly eases number three back on his plate without so much as a bite.
Nellie looks up at me with wide eyes. "You're doing it. You're panicking. This isn’t you. You know how to make decent gingersnaps for…for crying in a bucket."
I flinch back. “For what?”
“It’s a thing,” Mr. Bruce says.
My shoulders drop. "I am freaking out. I don't know what to do."
"You can't use any of these," Mr. Bruce says glumly. "Can't you just tweak an already successful recipe?"
I roll my eyes. "As far as ginger cookies go, that's basically what anyone's doing at this point. I know what it takes to make the best there is, but I want to make it my own."
"Right." Mr. Bruce looks at his watch. "Jinxy’s going to be done in a few minutes."
"I better get going, too," Nellie says. “The date."
“The new guy from the singles group?” I confirm.
She nods. “Wish me luck."
I walk them to the door, thank them for witnessing me at my worst, and spin in place to look at the kitchen. I grab the trash bin and dump every last cookie into it.
Believe it or not, it’s satisfying. I tell myself I'm turning a page. I got the panic out of my system, and now it's time to get back to business.
A vision of Jude and Lisa pricks my mind like a venom-filled fang, setting fire to my insides with a pulsing, throbbing burn.
I groan and decide I'll feel better if I take the trash out to the curb. I’ll empty my mental trash at the same time—hit delete on the taunting picture, so I can’t torture myself with it anymore.
I step into my UGGs, shuffle through the dusting of snow to my garbage bin, and toss the bag inside. Buh-buy, hot-mess-me.
My shoulders are lighter as I walk back inside.
There, I tell myself. You can still do this.
And I can. I have an opportunity most people would give anything for. And whether Jude still loves me or not, whether he's deep in a relationship with what's-her-face or they’re mere acquaintances who hung out once at a charity event, it doesn’t make or break me.
I nod, believing it. The follow-up voice takes it a step further. Besides, it says, if you wanted a future with him, you should've done something about it when you had the chance.
I pretend that doesn’t sting and set a new bag in my trash bin. Yet just as I tuck it back beneath my sink, my phone lets out a buzz.
Probably a text from Nellie or Mr. Bruce. I know you’re upset right now, I imagine it says, but I’d strongly advise you against eating any of those cookies.
I hurry over to my phone, scan the notification, and see a name that makes me gasp like I've seen a ghost.
Jude: I hear you’ve got one last audition for Get Cooking. Make ‘em melt, Lady G. I know you can.