Chapter 1 #2
My heart sinks like a stone, and my grip tightens on the knife as I dice the jalapenos.
Dad is a topic I always try to avoid. I want to scream about him, rant about what a terrible parent he was and still is.
I want to commiserate with the one person who actually understands.
But instead, the room stays silent, the air perfectly still while my heart holds the thoughts close to my chest, refusing to let them be heard.
I don’t even know where he lives now. Vegas?
Maybe near Parx in Philadelphia? Take your pick of any cheap, run-down apartments within walking distance of a casino, and there’s a solid chance he’s there.
I clear my throat, forcing the words out.
"He called me two days ago," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "Asking for money. Again."
Taylor sets her wineglass down and studies me. "What did you say?"
I shrug. "What could I say? I transferred him a few hundred dollars.” It was actually two thousand, enough to almost wipe out my savings account.
But saying that number out loud might make me break out in hives.
I don’t want to admit how embarrassing it is that he still asks, still expects me to fix his problems.
He was supposed to be getting his life together.
Taylor’s brows pinch in confusion. "That’s weird. He told me you refused to give him anything."
I freeze.
Her voice drops into a low, deep rasp. "He said you hung up on him." She lets the words hang in the air, watching me, waiting for a reaction.
My jaw drops. How could he lie like that? And why the hell would Taylor believe him? "No," I say firmly. "That’s not what happened at all."
She crosses her arms, her expression curious. "Okay, then, how much did you really give him?"
I inhale slowly, trying to control the frustration bubbling up inside me.
"Two thousand dollars," I say through clenched teeth.
"And he had the audacity to tell you I gave him nothing.
" The anger simmers beneath my skin as I grab a pot, turn on the stove, and pour in some olive oil.
"Why am I even surprised anymore?" I mutter, tossing in a handful of vegetables.
Taylor, unfazed, picks up a stray slice of jalapeno and pops it into her mouth. "You really didn’t have any more to give him?" she asks, her voice light, casual.
My shoulders tense.
"He owes me a hundred bucks," she continues, sighing like she’s the one inconvenienced. "And I need it back. If you’d just given him a little more, I could’ve gotten my money too." She huffs, completely oblivious.
And just like that, the frustration turns into something heavy; something I can’t ever seem to shake off.
Taylor has always felt this strange, deep-rooted sense of entitlement.
Ever since her mother came knocking on my father’s door, she has acted as if everything should revolve around her, as if I owe her just as much as he does.
Like my world hadn’t imploded when it all went down too.
But the difference between us? She still has her mother. I don’t even know if mine is still alive. I exhale sharply, trying to keep my voice steady. "I told him that every penny I have is tied up in The Frosted Spoon. And how, how, is two thousand dollars not enough?"
Taylor shrugs, still completely unfazed. For her, it’s just another silly Dad thing. For me? It’s another reminder, a constant and exhausting struggle I face because of our father’s choices.
No, stop.
I refuse to let this visit spiral into family drama. Not now. Not when I’m days away from the grand opening of the bakery. I can’t afford to get sucked down into a dysfunctional family rabbit hole.
"Let’s not talk about him or money right now, okay?
" I say, stirring the vegetables and keeping my tone deliberately light. "Let’s just enjoy our wine and talk about something nicer." I don’t want to think about how broke I am, how I’m still drowning in student loans, or how I’ve been working nonstop just to make ends meet—not just for myself, but for everyone else who always seems to need something from me.
Like Dad and Taylor.
Just last month, for her birthday, I gave her five hundred dollars for some acting boot camp in LA. Money I know I’ll never get back. Their need for help is constant. It’s always been this way.
That’s why The Frosted Spoon has to work. It has to succeed.
My chest tightens, a familiar, creeping anxiety pressing in.
I take a deep breath, focusing on the sizzle of the vegetables instead of the stress threatening to take over.
I need a subject change. Fast. I don’t want to have a panic attack in front of her right now.
"So," I say, turning to Taylor with a casual tone I don’t feel, "who’s the lucky guy you’re meeting tonight? "
Yes. Men.
Talking about men should be safe.
"It’s just a hook-up," Taylor says, finishing her glass of wine like it’s no big deal. Then she tilts her head at me. "Are you seeing anyone?"
I snort. "What do you mean by seeing? Like a hallucination? A therapist? A ghost?"
She scoffs as I laugh, but this is how we operate—our own little half-sister dance. Neither of us sharing anything too real, always keeping just enough distance between us. Usually in the form of separate states and silence.
"If it’s hallucinations, share the drugs, please," she says, wiggling her fingers in a gimme motion.
I grin, waving her hands away. "You know me. I’m a drug-free zone." Not the fun kind anyway.
"Well, there’s your first problem."
I chuckle, shaking my head. She’s probably right.
"Seriously, though," she presses, "are you seeing any men?"
I shake my head, still laughing. "Nope. Not even one."
Taylor gives me a long, skeptical stare, then slaps her hand down flat onto the counter. "Please don’t tell me you’re still hung up on that idiot, what’s his face."
"I’m not,” I say firmly. “I can honestly say I am extremely happy for what's-his-face and his ugly new girlfriend. I mean it." I laugh as I pop open a can of black beans, but the truth is, I haven’t seen or heard from Nathan since we broke up four months ago. And honestly? That’s been a blessing. That entire relationship made me question everything about myself, and I didn’t like the answers I came up with.
So dating hasn’t exactly been a priority since. Maybe it never will be.
"You should get back out there." Her voice drips with impatience as she pours herself another glass of wine. "You shouldn't waste the best years of your life waiting for him to come back and finally fall in love with you."
"I have been back out there," I say, my voice sharper than I intended. "And I am not sitting around waiting for Nathan to do anything."
And he did love me.
In his own twisted way.
"You should get on Tinder or something. Get laid."
I snort. "Yeah, well, I’ve used it a few times. But to me, it’s like picking a new nail color. At first, I'm all, ‘This is a great color,’ and then twenty minutes go by and I'm like, ‘This is not what I wanted at all. Get it off me.’"
Taylor groans. "Ugh, you feel like that because you're probably looking for a serious relationship. Just look for a good time.”
I shake my head. "I don't have time for a serious relationship, Taylor, so I'm definitely not looking for one.”
She tilts her head. "When was the last time you went on a date?"
I try to remember as I lock my can opener onto the top of a can of crushed tomatoes and twist it around the rim until it's fully open.
"Oh, yeah. I know. It was a few weeks ago," I say, setting the can of tomatoes to the side.
"I can't remember his name, but I remember him seriously asking me how I felt about coprophilia. "
Taylor’s face scrunches. "Caa-pro-what?"
"Exactly!" I throw my hands up. "I had to discreetly Google it under the table while he rambled on about his disturbing fetish."
Taylor's fingers fly across her phone screen. I know the exact moment she finds the definition because her eyes snap up to mine, wide with horror. "Ew. What did you say to him?"
"Nothing,” I deadpan. “I ran out of there so fast I twisted my ankle and had to ice it for the rest of the night."
"Okay, but that was just one crappy experience," Taylor giggles, clearly amused by her own joke. Then she tilts her head, suddenly serious.
"Don’t you miss having sex?" She looks genuinely offended, like my lack of a sex life is somehow a personal betrayal.
"Who says I’m not having sex?" I counter. I’m not, but she doesn’t need to know that.
Well, I mean, it’s been two months, but none of this is her business.
The less she knows, the less time she’ll spend annoying me about it.
After growing up with m gambling-addict father and dating Nathan the Man-Child, I’ve officially reached a point where I think all men should start in jail and prove their way out.
And it’s not like I’m some prude, I’ve had plenty of sex—when I have time for it.
Which, lately? I don’t. Between working five days a week as a baker at the casino, running my small pastry business, bartending four nights a week, and trying to open my own bakery, my schedule is packed.
If I could squeeze in a dick, believe me, I would. But right now, I’m too busy just trying to survive.
Taylor stares at me, unblinking.
I don’t think she believes me. It’s my turn to scoff. "My sex life is fine. I've just been swamped, that's all. I need this bakery to be a success."
Not that it really matters, because the sex I do have?
Totally overrated. One to two stars, max.
Honestly, I get myself into crazier positions shaving my legs than anything the men I've slept with have been willing to try. But it’s probably best not to say that out loud.
"I'm just really focused on The Frosted Spoon right now and nothing else,” I say instead.