Chapter 21
When I park outside my apartment, Kara is already sitting on the top step, a bottle of wine dangling from one hand and a paper bag stamped with our favorite taco truck’s logo resting beside her. Even from the car, I can see the grease soaking through the bottom of the bag.
I sit there for a second, engine ticking as it cools, hands still gripping the steering wheel.
I will not cry again. I’ve done enough of that for one day.
I slam the car door harder than necessary and square my shoulders before turning toward the building. Kara looks up at the sound. The second her eyes find mine, her expression softens.
And that’s it. That’s all it takes.
“Kara,” I manage, my voice already breaking despite my best effort to hold it together.
She’s on her feet before I reach the steps, arms open. I make it exactly one second inside them before the tears I swore were finished start all over again.
“Oh, Sunshine,” she murmurs, rubbing slow circles between my shoulder blades. “Okay—yeah—that bad, huh?”
I nod against her shoulder, mortified by how quickly I folded. Three and a half hours in the car, telling myself I was fine, wasn’t enough. Apparently, all it takes is one look at my best friend for me to unravel completely.
“I didn’t even change,” I say thickly, motioning to my flour-dusted clothes. “I walked in, grabbed my bags, and left. I didn’t say goodbye to anyone. I just… left.”
Kara pulls back enough to look at me, thumb swiping under one of my eyes. “Good. Dramatic exits are necessary sometimes.”
A watery laugh slips out of me.
She nudges the paper bag toward me with her foot. “Come on. I brought carnitas. And that ridiculously expensive wine you pretend you can taste notes in.”
“I can taste notes,” I sniff.
“Babe, you once described a wine as ‘purple’ and ‘grapey’.”
“It was ‘purple’ and ‘grapey’.”
She huffs, looping her arm through mine and steering me toward the door. “Inside. Shoes off. You’re telling me everything from the top. And if he’s as dumb as your text made him sound, I reserve the right to hate him indefinitely.”
It takes only moments for us to settle in my living room, wine glasses full and still-warm carnitas piled onto plates.
“Okay, girl,” Kara says, kicking her feet up on my coffee table before taking a gulp of wine. “You have your wine. You have your food. Out with it.”
The melt-in-your-mouth shreds dance a symphony of flavor over my tongue as I chew, wondering where to begin. Because the truth is, while I’m upset that Alex didn’t tell me everything sooner, I’m also just exhausted.
The competition is coming to an end. There are only a couple of bakes left. The pressure of my schedule is relentless.
I work all week, practice when I can, and bake under extreme pressure all weekend. Finding out that Alex may have been pretending for the cameras this entire time was just the final straw.
The proverbial icing on the cake.
I blow out a slow breath before turning to my best friend and recounting the entire interaction. Every word, every look, every awful, twisting second of it comes tumbling out. Kara doesn’t interrupt. She just listens, humming softly when I falter, refilling my wine glass without asking.
She takes a second before speaking.
“Okay,” she says carefully. “First of all? Your feelings are valid. Like, aggressively valid.”
I pause mid-sip, eyeing her over the rim of my glass. She isn’t as angry as she should be. She isn’t gearing up to eviscerate him. That alone makes me suspicious.
“But,” she continues gently, “he had an agreement in place before he ever met you, right? With his family? With the restaurant group?”
I nod in answer.
“And if he broke that, he risked his dad pulling funding.”
Another nod. I don’t like where this is going.
She studies me for a moment, like she’s choosing her next words carefully.
“I’m not saying he handled it perfectly. He absolutely should’ve told you sooner. I’m not defending that part.”
She squeezes my hand.
“But Tay… if someone walked up to you tomorrow and offered to bankroll your dream bakery—the storefront, the equipment, the staff, literally everything—and all you had to do was keep your last name quiet and win over an audience?”
Her brows lift when I don’t answer.
“You’re really going to sit there and tell me you wouldn’t at least consider it?”
I narrow my eyes at her. “Whose side are you on?”
“Yours,” she says immediately. “Always yours. But being on your side doesn’t mean I let you rewrite the story into something it’s not.”
Ouch.
But she’s right. I want it to be simple. I want him to be careless or shallow or manipulative. Something easy to file away under, ‘lesson learned.’
But Alex isn’t any of those things.
He’s strategic. Intentional. Used to thinking ten steps ahead. Which means he knew exactly what he was risking by opening up to me. I can’t decide whether to admire or resent him for that.
I exhale sharply. “I wouldn’t turn down the chance if someone wanted to fund my dream, but that’s not the same thing.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not upset about funding or even that he didn’t tell me about his family. I’m upset about… us.” My voice wobbles despite my effort to keep it steady. “He let me fall for him without knowing who he really was.”
Kara tilts her head. “No?”
“I knew who he presented himself as.” I set my wine down harder than necessary. The deep crimson almost sloshes over the rim. “That’s the problem. I don’t know where the line is. I don’t know what parts were him and what parts were him playing to the cameras.”
Kara leans back into the couch, studying me carefully.
“Okay… Then, let me ask you something.”
I brace myself, but nod for her to continue.
“You said he wasn’t like that with everyone, right? Not warm. Not overly charming. Not playing golden-boy with the whole cast.”
“No,” I admit, thinking back on all the ways he’s the exact opposite. My lips quirk as I picture his near-constant scowl. “He wasn’t.”
“If this was purely strategy, wouldn’t he be nice to everyone? Wouldn’t he spread that charm around evenly? Make sure the cameras caught it from every angle?”
I hesitate.
Because… yeah. He would.
“He didn’t,” she presses gently. “He was selective. And you were the only one he kept showing up for.”
My heartbeat kicks up at the realization.
“That doesn’t feel like someone performing for an audience,” she says. “That feels like someone who forgot there was one.”
Maybe Kara’s right.
Maybe it doesn’t have to be one or the other.
Maybe he can be strategic and still be sincere.
I think about the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not paying attention, the way his hand always finds the small of my back like it belongs there, the way he stood between me and production without hesitation.
None of that felt like a performance. And yet, I don’t know how to untangle my mess of feelings from logic. I don’t know how to be sure I wasn’t just another move on a very well-played board.
My newfound hope flickers anyway, a stubborn butterfly rising from the ashes of my anger.
I scoff, flip my phone face down, and silence it. I don’t want to analyze this anymore. I don’t want to reread his messages or wait for another one to come through. I just want quiet.
I just want to forget about all of it for a little while.
?????????
Alex
It’s been three fucking days with no answer from Taylor.
Three days of calls going straight to voicemail. Three days of texts left on read. Three days of staring at my phone like I can will her name to light up the screen.
I’ve executed high-stakes dinner services with less anxiety than this. I have no leverage here. No angle whatsoever. There’s nothing I can do right now that doesn’t reek of desperation.
The silence is suffocating.
I’m not used to being shut out. I’m not used to not knowing how to fix something. And the longer she doesn’t respond, the louder the question gets in my head: What if she’s already decided I’m not worth the explanation?
My jaw tightens. I don’t do well with helplessness. And right now, that’s exactly what this feels like.
“Joe!” I bark from the doorway of my room.
I’m already moving, already halfway down the stairs before I hear his footsteps in the kitchen.
“What?” he calls back, voice thick around a mouthful of something. He rounds the corner still chewing a bagel, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth.
“Hypothetically,” I start.
He takes one look at my face and groans. “No.”
“You don’t even know what I’m going to ask.”
“I don’t need to,” he says, taking another bite. “The only time I’ve seen you this amped up was when you tore into production. Whatever you’re thinking? It’s not good.”
I tilt my head, considering him. “How do you feel about stealing a van?”
Joe chokes on his bagel. “Excuse me?”
“Borrowing,” I correct. “Temporarily reallocating resources for the sake of excellent television.”
“You’ve lost your mind.”
Yeah, maybe I have. But I have to try something. I can’t keep sitting here waiting for a text that may never come.
“Hear me out,” I say, stepping closer. “This could be the shot that gets you promoted next season.”
He freezes. The chewing slows.
“It’s been three days of radio silence with Taylor,” I continue. “The audience thinks I fumbled it. They think it’s over. And then—” I snap my fingers. “I show up. Almost four hours away. No warning. Flowers. An apology. Real drama to feed the audience.”
Joe studies me carefully. “And you’re sure she won’t just slam the door in your face?”
“No.” A short laugh breaks out of me. “But that outcome might actually be better for you than if she lets me in.”
“For me,” he repeats.
“For the show,” I amend with a grin. “Whether she lets me in or not, that’s the kind of footage they build promos around.”
Silence stretches between us. I can see the gears turning in his head, already planning all the ways they could spin this narrative to benefit the show.
“You’d let me film it?” he asks finally. He’s guarded, expression unsure and I don’t blame him. I haven’t been the easiest to work with.
I hold his gaze. “I’d forget you’re even there.”
Less than an hour later, we’re piled into one of the show’s passenger vans, barreling down the freeway toward Cambria.
Toward Taylor.
Toward whatever she decides to do with me.
Hours later, Joe stops at a small flower shop a few miles from Taylor’s apartment. I hop out and duck inside, the bell over the door chiming too loudly.
I grab the biggest bouquet of sunflowers they have.
It isn’t perfect. One of the stems leans too far out, and a couple of the petals are bent at the edges, but my girl isn’t a rose kind of girl.
She’s bright colors and summer sun. The kind of woman who laughs too loud and doesn’t apologize for it. Someone who makes everything around her warmer just by standing there.
I run a thumb over one of the battered petals.
Yeah. These feel right.
Joe eyes the bouquet with surprise as I slide the van door closed and take my seat. The adrenaline has been simmering under my skin the entire drive, but now that we’re here, it settles into a pit of nerves in my stomach.
The van turns onto her street, a narrow lane lined with low brick apartments and the faint scent of jasmine curling in the evening air.
String lights hang across the balconies, casting golden pools on the sidewalks.
Kids weave between parked cars on bikes, the distant hum of an ice cream truck trailing down the block.
It’s peaceful here, like the chaos of the last week belongs somewhere else entirely.
Joe pulls the van to a stop a few doors down from hers and cuts the engine. He nods, and I grip the bouquet tighter, feeling the rough edges of the paper against my palms.
“Alright,” I murmur, mostly to myself. “This is it.”
I step out, and the breeze hits my face.
Every step toward her door feels heavier than the last, like the weight of three days of silence has settled squarely on my shoulders.
Joe lingers behind a parked car, camera angled subtly, close enough to capture the approach but far enough to feel like I’m doing this alone.
“Go get her, bud!” he calls from behind me.
Her door comes into view, framed by a tiny wrought-iron railing and a faded welcome mat. A pot of marigolds leans against the steps. Everything about it is so effortlessly Taylor.
I take a deep breath and raise the bouquet, my hand trembling slightly. One step at a time, I move closer until I’m standing in front of her bright blue door.
My knuckles rap against it.
No answer.
I try again, a little harder this time.
Still nothing.
Just as I’m about to turn away, the door swings open and there she is. Eyes wide. Hair falling in a riot around her shoulders. Her mouth hanging open, confused.
For a second, I can’t speak. I can only stand there, letting the silence stretch, letting the moment hold us in place.
“Taylor.”
That’s it. No grand speech—just her name tumbling out like a plea or a prayer from my lips. Her expression shifts, uncertainty flickering in her eyes, and I know this is the moment everything changes.