Chapter Eighteen
Things had changed at the retreat, and not just between Ava and Regan. It couldn’t even be considered a divide. It was a fracturing. A shattering. Ava watched it happen.
Vienna—who had already expressed reservations about the entire retreat—had distanced herself from the rest of them, it seemed, even Ava. She came down in the morning, grabbed her coffee, and headed out onto the grounds. Paige and Madison seemed to be the only ones whose friendship stayed intact, and they could usually be found in a corner of a room or sitting next to each other at the table, their heads together and their voices hushed. Maia didn’t really change much. She’d been kind of a loner from the start, and she remained so, but she’d nod at Regan when she saw her, or she’d sit next to Ava if there was space. Ava appreciated that more than she was willing to admit.
As for Regan, she kept her head down, came in a room to get what she needed, and took whatever it was—coffee, dinner, a cocktail—back up to her room. She barely looked at any of them. It made Ava’s heart squeeze in her chest.
“Feeling a little bit like high school, isn’t it?” Maia asked on Wednesday morning as she plopped down next to Ava. She took a sip of her coffee and scanned the room over the rim of her mug.
Ava sighed and shook her head. “I can’t believe what a colossal disappointment this retreat has been,” she said quietly. “If I didn’t have a deep-seated aversion to quitting anything—even when I should—I’d go home right now.”
“Yeah, but you don’t wanna give Chef that satisfaction.”
“You got that right.” Ava shook her head and then sipped. “It’s only a little while longer.” Eight days, to be exact. Eight long days that felt like years stretched out before them.
“Yep. You doing okay?” Maia had been the only one to ask her that.
Ava lifted a shoulder. “Well, let’s see. I thought this was gonna be an amazing retreat where I’d learn from my baking idol, I end up rooming with a woman from my past who hates me, but it starts to be kinda great, and I’m learning a ton, and my fellow retreaters are cool, and I even make amends with the woman from my past, and she doesn’t hate me anymore.”
“Sounds awesome,” Maia said, a grin on her face as she sipped. “And then?”
“And then it all went to shit.” Ava chuckled. She had to or she’d cry. “My baking idol is a bit of a sadist, I think”—Maia snorted at that—“though I am still learning a ton, so I can’t fault her there. But a definite sadist who likes to fuck with people, which was proven by her weird need to out me and my ex-nemesis-turned—” She cleared her throat and looked away.
“Sex bunny? The cream to your puff? Love-ah ?”
“What?” Ava laughed. “‘Sex bunny’? Seriously. No. Never say that again.” Maia laughed, too, and then Ava turned serious again, because Maia was the only person who’d had a long enough conversation with her to allow her to voice her theory. “Regan didn’t steal my idea. I think I inadvertently stole hers.” At Maia’s furrowed brow, she went on. “I think Becca stole Regan’s idea and sold it to me as her own, and I ran with it.”
“Why didn’t you say something?” There was no accusation in Maia’s tone, just simple curiosity, but Ava felt the question like a punch to the gut.
“Because I was a fucking coward. I let our history get in my way—and so did she, if I’m being honest, because she doesn’t believe that I didn’t steal it. I told her what I thought happened, but she figured I was cutting the person beneath me loose.” She tipped her head to one side, then dropped her shoulders in defeat. “Which is valid.”
“Why’s it valid?”
“Because it’s what I did with her. Way back.”
“Ah.” Maia nodded. She sipped her coffee. “But you’re not that person now.”
Ava sighed, and it felt heavy, weighted. “No, but I guess she doesn’t see that. Not anymore.” Taking a sip of her own coffee, she had to give herself a moment and swallow down the lump in her throat. “I really thought she would.” It came out as a mere whisper, and Maia turned to look at her.
“I’m really sorry,” Maia said and squeezed her knee.
“Yeah. Me too.”
“Look, all we need to do is get through the next week and we can get the fuck out of here and never look back.”
“Yes, please,” Ava said, with a nod and a bump of Maia’s shoulder. Inside, though, the thought of never seeing Regan again made her heart pound harder in her chest and squeezed the air from her lungs. She had to give herself a minute to acclimate to that emotion as it rolled through her. The two of them sat quietly. It was so different from how it had been a week or two into the retreat, when the dining room had been a place of gathering and making new friends and laughter. Now it was nearly empty, and something about that made Ava sad.
Maia glanced at the smartwatch on her wrist and frowned. Then she took a deep breath, finished her coffee, and looked at Ava. “Ready?”
“No. But let’s go.” She pushed to her feet, her legs feeling almost leaden as they headed for the kitchen.
* * *
Regan wanted to go home so badly, she could taste it.
She’d spent the past several days kicking herself for letting Liza Bennett-Schmidt talk her into staying. What she should have done was tell the famous chef to take her stupid retreat and her fancy single room (where had that been the whole time?) and shove them up her game-playing ass. Because she was pretty sure that’s what was happening here, she just didn’t know why. Had the chef grown bored with her millions and millions of dollars and her mansion in the hills? Did baking fail to thrill her any longer, so she looked for excitement in other ways? Mainly by manipulating people? The fact that the assistants were gone now was a curious development, and one that was very convenient for Liza and very inconvenient for Regan. She wanted to believe Ava. She did. But Ava’s track record wouldn’t allow it. Except now there was no Becca to confront, to ask for the truth.
Liza Bennett-Schmidt was one sneaky bitch.
“I miss her,” she said quietly into the phone one night when there were only two days left of the retreat.
Kiki sighed, but not in an accusatory way. Regan knew that. Her friend was just worried about her. “I know you do. I’m sorry, babe.” She could hear Kiki take a sip of whatever she was drinking before she asked, “There’s no way you can talk to her?”
Regan pursed her lips, remembering the things she’d said to Ava. “I think that ship has sailed.” She blew out a breath. “And just because I miss her doesn’t mean I trust her.” She’d spent the past week or so doing her best to focus on her work, whatever bake was on the counter in front of her, all the while taking peripheral glances at Ava to her right. Ava, who seemed tenser than ever, if the visible tightness of her shoulders was any indication. Ava, who had started the retreat with a very serious expression and rarely smiled, who then had moved to easier smiling and even outright laughter, and had now returned to serious and smileless.
It made Regan sad.
The evenings after they baked, she’d either go for a walk—which was a bit dangerous, as Ava had started running on the daily—watch a movie, or search for new baking ideas to put into play when she got back to Sweet Temptations. Anything to keep her distracted and her mind off the fact that she was alone in her big bed, that there were none of Ava’s toiletries lined up neatly on the bathroom sink, none of her towels folded precisely and hanging on the rack, nobody to shoot disapproving looks at her mess of clothes scattered all over the floor of the room. She was tired of the pillow next to hers not smelling like Ava. She was tired of the loneliness and uncertainty and homesickness. She missed her apartment, her cat, and her bakery. And Ava.
“Nope.” She shook her head vehemently as she stabbed at the keys on her laptop looking for something violent to watch. A good slasher film—the bloodier the better—would keep her mind off the gorgeous brunette who had captured her heart…and then stomped on it. “Man, your taste in women sucks, Callahan,” she muttered as she started the movie.
* * *
Leaving the Bennett-Schmidt retreat was nothing like arriving at it. Not in atmosphere and not in attitude of the attendees. Their arrival had been excited. Celebratory. Their exit was quiet. Cerebral. They each received a letter under their door in the morning from Liza Bennett-Schmidt. It thanked them for attending, said she hoped they enjoyed it and got something out of it and that she was going to sit down with all her notes to decide who’d get the money—they would be notified by mail.
So fucking anticlimactic.
Regan sighed as she lugged her suitcase down the grand staircase. Again, no Charles to carry it for her. Near the front door stood Madison and Paige, and she looked around to see if anybody else was there.
“The others left in the early van,” Paige said, watching her scan.
“There was an earlier van?” Regan asked.
“Apparently.” Madison shrugged. “I’d have been on it if I’d known.”
“Same,” Regan said. “I can’t wait to get home,” she said quietly, more to herself than the others, but Paige responded.
“You’re so lucky to not have far to go. Just a train ride, right?” At Regan’s nod, she said, “I’m headed across the country. Probably won’t get home until late, barring any flight delays.”
“I don’t have to go as far,” Madison said. “But I still have a flight.”
The small talk was grinding on Regan. These were people who’d assumed she’d stolen somebody else’s idea. Hadn’t even asked her about it. When she’d reached the end of her patience—which didn’t take longer than a few minutes, she spoke very calmly. “Listen, you don’t have to talk to me and pretend like the last two weeks of being pretty much ostracized never happened. It’s fine. I’m a big girl. I can take it. But I do need you both to know that I did not steal Ava’s design. I have no idea how we ended up with the same one, but I did not steal hers. That’s not who I am.” The front door opened and Charles entered, then stopped in his tracks, clearly sensing he was interrupting something. Regan shrugged and added, “But thanks for giving me the benefit of the doubt.” She turned her attention to their driver. “Hey, Charles.”
“Ms. Callahan. I trust you’re ready to go?” He grasped the handle of her suitcase.
“Absolutely. Get me the hell out of here.” She followed him out, leaving Madison and Paige standing there, tandem expressions of sheepishness on their faces. Good. It was the least they owed her.
She climbed into the van, took a seat in the back, and kept her eyes on the passing landscape as they drove. She could feel the tension in the van, could sense that one or both of the other women wanted to say something, but neither of them did. Their trains were leaving from two different spots, and Regan hurried away from the van before anybody could say anything. It was rude, she knew, not to even offer up a goodbye, but she was so fucking over this entire experience. All she wanted was to get home as quickly as possible and let her brain—and her heart—decompress and recover from eight weeks that were supposed to have been fun and educational but had ended up being confusing and stressful.
“Fuck that shit,” she whispered quietly, once she was settled on the train. All of it. The retreat, the mean-girl politics, Liza Bennett-Schmidt, who couldn’t even be bothered to see her guests out, and Ava. All of it. All of them. “Fuck that shit,” she said again.
The girl sitting next to her was probably eighteen, black hair with a bright blue streak, and a septum pierced by a thick silver ring. “Damn right,” she said, nodding but never looking up from her phone.
Regan smiled. Gotta love New York.
* * *
Much to her surprise, Ava did still have a job when she got home. But her first week back at Pomp was rough, mostly because of the hours. At the retreat, her body had gotten used to waking up early, going for a run regularly. Now she was back to beginning her workday midafternoon and working until after midnight at times. It took a toll.
One bright spot: She did find that several of the practices and hacks she’d learned from Liza Bennett-Schmidt had actually come in handy, and she used them often. “At least I got something out of the damn thing,” she muttered at her workstation one night while making crème br?lée.
“Only back for a week and already talking to yourself,” Courtney said as she came into the kitchen. “It’s so sad, really.”
Ava grinned as she used the handheld blowtorch to caramelize the tops of the desserts. “That’s me. Sad and pathetic. Hashtag My Life.”
Courtney went into the walk-in fridge and came out with a bag of lemons. “Have you texted her yet?”
Ava didn’t look up, just kept torching. “No.” That one word was all she said, and she continued to work until she felt Courtney’s eyes on her. She sighed and straightened. Courtney was still standing there, bag of lemons in hand.
“Why not?” her friend asked. There was no accusation in her tone, only curiosity mixed with a hint of sympathy that made Ava want to grind her teeth. Courtney cocked her head to the side, clearly wondering.
Ava shrugged and shook her head. “I just…I tried. I keep typing things up and deleting them before I can send them.” Suddenly, her shoes were very interesting. “I don’t know what to say.”
Courtney stepped closer and looked around, then lowered her voice. “You still miss her?” she asked softly.
Ava nodded and, to her horror, felt her eyes well up. “I thought it would ease up once I got home and back into my routine, but…” She swallowed hard. “It’s only made me realize how lonely my life is.”
Courtney leaned in even closer, then lowered her voice to a whisper. “Then fucking text her.” Then she kissed Ava’s cheek sweetly and bopped out of the kitchen, headed back to her bar.
Ava laughed through her nose and shook her head once more.
Fucking text her.
She snorted again and set the crème br?lées on a tray, making the presentation as perfect as possible. The waiter smiled at her with a soft “Nice” as he took them, and she stood there with a hand on her hip, watching him go, Courtney’s words echoing through her head.
Fucking text her.
If only it was that simple.
Could it be? Maybe she was overthinking. God knew, she was fantastic at that .
Of course, in true Ava Prescott fashion, she spent the rest of her shift overthinking. To text or not to text, that was the question, and the answer was nowhere to be found. Her brain went around and around with pros and cons, and what she would say should she text, and what she absolutely should not say should she text, and by the time she punched out, she had a massive headache and couldn’t wait to go home.
Jiminy was happy to see her, so that was a bright spot in her day. He’d been very cuddly since her return, and she still felt some residual guilt for having left him for that long. To make up for it, she put him first every time she got home. She opened the door, set all her stuff down immediately, and swooped him up into her arms. “This is my cat,” she’d say to him, showering him with kisses. “This is my cat. Isn’t he handsome? Look how handsome he is.” She wasn’t 100 percent sure, but he seemed to like it, and he kind of glowed proudly when she called him her cat, so she continued to do it.
Once their daily love fest was finished, she set him down and fed him. She really wanted pasta, but her level of fatigue was high, and even making something that simple felt like too much. Instead, she whipped up some eggs, tossed some shredded cheese on them, and called it dinner. She made herself comfortable on her bed with her plate and her cat and the day’s mail, doing her best not to think of Regan and failing spectacularly.
She wolfed her eggs down in mere minutes, not having realized just how hungry she was, and set the plate aside in favor of the mail. Energy levels in the red zone, she promised herself she’d take a quick scan to make sure nothing was pressing and deal with the rest in the morning.
It was envelope number three, which was certified, that changed everything.