Chapter 30
Six Months Later
There’s a rhythm to my life now.
It’s not the kind I used to force before the show—rigid schedules, back-to-back calls, counting down the hours until I could go home and feel like myself again. This one is different. This one is mine.
It shifts when it needs to, stretching and folding around the things I didn’t know I’d been longing for: quiet mornings filled with the aroma of coffee and dough, room for my creativity to wander, and the freedom to make each day matter.
Most mornings start before the sun, and I don’t mind.
While it took a couple months to prove how reliable I am, Theresa—the owner of Dolce—happily let me take over the opening shift.
The bakery lights flicker on while the world outside is still dark, and for a few seconds, it feels like I’m the only person awake. There’s something peaceful about it. The quiet hum of the ovens warming, the low whir of the mixers, the smell of yeast and sugar coming to life.
By the time the first batch of croissants goes in, caffeine is zipping through my bloodstream.
By the time the doors open, I’m fully in the groove.
This morning is busy in a way that makes me feel alive. The steady rhythm of shaping dough, glazing pastries, plating things people will actually stop to admire before they eat them feels good. Customers filter in every few minutes, keeping me on my toes and smiling.
I’ve even started recognizing regulars.
There’s an older man who comes in every Tuesday and Friday like clockwork, always ordering the same sourdough loaf and black coffee.
A mom with two kids who press their little faces to the display case while they try to choose just one thing.
A college girl who pretends to browse but always ends up ordering the lavender-honey pastry and smiling like it’s the highlight of her week.
Sometimes they recognize me, too.
Today, my lavender-honey connoisseur tilts her head like she’s trying to place me.
“You look familiar.”
I just smile. “Must have one of those faces.”
It’s easier this way.
My NDA is technically up now that the season has aired, but I really enjoy not having the spotlight on me when I’m here. The show still plays in the background of people’s lives, and every now and then I’ll catch someone watching it on their phone while they wait in line.
It’s surreal.
But it’s not my whole life anymore.
By the end of my shift, my arms ache and my hair is half falling out of whatever attempt I made to tame it when I first arrived.
Before I head out, I slip into the bathroom to freshen up.
There’s almost always a smear of something on my cheek, and a lingering scent of toasty bread and espresso that follows me everywhere.
I’ve never felt more like myself.
And I sing alongside Sabrina Carpenter the whole way home, dancing in my seat like nobody can see through my un-tinted car windows.
Heating up a plate of leftovers from Mrs. Delgado, I drop into a chair at my tiny kitchen table. Chewing thoughtfully, my fingers open my laptop and navigate to the Google form I set up for all the custom order requests flooding in.
I initially tried to manage it all by hand, keeping a log of all inquiries from DMs across every social media account in a composition notebook but it quickly became too overwhelming for that.
Custom cake orders with specific theme or flavor requests are the most common, but there are some event inquiries and open-ended requests asking about pricing, timelines, and availability.
I’ve gotten good at saying no when I need to, and even better at knowing my limits.
Some nights, I sit cross-legged on my kitchen floor, sketching out designs with an extra pencil tucked behind my ear. Other nights, I’m elbow-deep in buttercream, music playing in the background while I lose track of time completely.
It’s not glamorous, or easy, but it’s mine.
“Okay, but hear me out,” Kara says, kicking off her shoes the second she steps into my apartment without knocking like she owns the place. “What if we start a tradition where we only go out for drinks if we have a reason to celebrate something.”
I glance up from the cake I’m smoothing frosting onto, one eyebrow lifting. “That feels like a slippery slope into finding reasons to celebrate everything.”
“Exactly,” she says, grinning. “You get it.”
I huff out a quiet laugh, shaking my head. “We don’t need a reason, Kara.”
“Wrong,” she counters, hopping up onto my counter and swinging her legs. “We always need a reason. Today’s reason is that you turned down three orders because you’re fully booked for the next two weeks.”
I pause for a second.
“Okay,” I admit, setting the spatula down. “That might be worth celebrating.”
“Thank you,” she says, like I’ve just proven her point. “God, I love being right.”
We end up at the same bar we always go to, tucked into a corner booth with drinks we didn’t really need but ordered anyway.
We talk about everything and nothing.
All the new drama with The Trunch at Elite Connections and the weird guy who tried to flirt with her at the gym by asking if she believed in fate.
Still laughing, I regale her with a retelling of the customer who asked me if I could make a cake shaped like their dog and then sent me seventeen reference photos.
As the night winds down and the drinks settle me into a warm, sleepy stupor, she nudges my foot under the table.
“You’re smiling at your phone.”
I blink, glancing down to see Alex’s nickname at the top of the screen. Somehow, I hadn’t realized I was looking at the message he sent me earlier.
“I’m not,” I say, a little too quickly. But it’s too late, the blush is already creeping in. The telltale warmth covering my cheeks.
Kara’s expression doesn’t change. “You are.”
“It’s nothing.” I exhale, setting my phone face down on the table and idly tracing a finger over the textured edge of the sunflower case Alex sent me a couple months ago.
“I don’t believe that for a second.”
“It’s just… he texted earlier. About some dish he’s working on for the new restaurant.”
“And?”
“And nothing,” I shrug. “We just… still talk sometimes.”
And that’s the truth of it. We do still talk; except it’s not like we used to. Not constant. Not effortless in that same way where hours would pass without either of us realizing it.
Now it’s a message here, a reply there.
Sometimes it’s a full conversation, but more often than not it’s just a quick exchange that fades when one of us gets pulled into something else.
It makes sense.
We have lives that don’t overlap the way they did before, back in LA. Nothing dramatic happened, we’re just both busy.
Still, I don’t mute his notifications. I don’t archive the thread, and I don’t stop my heart from doing that small, frantic flutter when his name lights up my screen.
Kara watches me for a second, then sighs. “You miss him.”
I pick at the chipped label on my glass. “Of course I do.”
She waits patiently for me, knowing there has to be more.
“But I’m okay,” I add, glancing up at her. “I really am.”
There’s a difference between missing someone and needing them. I don’t feel like something is missing from my life without him.
I feel like something meaningful happened, and now it’s over. And maybe that’s enough. We both just go our separate ways, remembering our time together for what it was.
Kara studies me like she’s trying to decide if she believes me. Then she nods once, like she’s come to a conclusion she’s not going to argue out loud.
“Okay,” she says simply.
She takes a long sip of her drink and we move on.
That’s the thing about Kara. She’ll push when she needs to, but she also knows when to let something sit.
And this is something I definitely don’t plan on digging into right now, especially not in the middle of a dive bar surrounded by desperate men waiting for the first sign of vulnerability to move in on.
Later that night, after I’ve washed off the day and changed into one of my oversized sweatshirts, I curl up on my couch with my laptop balanced on my knees.
My phone buzzes softly beside me—Grump Bucket.
A picture loads.
A plate, intricate and precise, with components arranged in a way that looks almost too perfect to touch. I don’t even know what half of it is, but I know it took time. Skill, intention, and finesse that Alex has in spades.
I smile before I can stop myself.
ME:
Garrett would weep with
pride ??
Three dots appear almost instantly.
GRUMP BUCKET:
Tastes better than it looks
I huff out a quiet laugh. Knowing Alex, it’s probably the most delicious food imaginable. But, for whatever reason, I don’t type that out as a response. Instead, I keep it short.
ME:
that seems unlikely
There’s a pause this time. My head lulls back against the couch cushion with my phone in hand, waiting to see if he says anything back. This is already the longest conversation we’ve had all week.
GRUMP BUCKET:
Long day?
I glance around my apartment. At the half-finished sketch on the table, a dirty apron dangling off the counter in the spot I tossed it when I came home earlier.
Me:
good day
Another pause that stretches far too long and feels deafening.
GRUMP BUCKET:
Good.
And then nothing.
I stare at the screen for a second longer than I need to before setting my phone down, because what am I supposed to say in response to good?
That’s how it is now.
We keep it to simple check-ins, always light and efficient.
Not heavy or dripping with everything we can’t say.
I press back into the couch cushions, letting the pillows absorb as much of my body as they can and stare up at the ceiling.
Maybe not everything that feels big is meant to last.
The thought comes easily now. It isn’t sharp or painful like it might have been months ago. It’s just… true.
Maybe some people show up for a short period of time, just change you, and that’s it.
I sigh, folding my hands over my stomach.