16. Calypso Collapse
It’s Monday morning, and the line at the Calypso is out the door. Customers are clamoring for my rosemary and blackberry scones filled with creamy ricotta. I came in at 3 a.m. to start baking, just after Pete leaves and a full two hours before Kai arrives, to ensure everything is ready. Planning for high demand, I made five hundred scones, setting a limit of three per customer at $8.99 each, hoping to accommodate everyone. Yet they sell out within an hour.
Having purchased all the ingredients myself, I retain 75 percent of the profits, which means I’ve made $3,371.25 this morning alone. It’s a little less after deducting the cost of ingredients. Ever since the podcast took off, Mondays have become incredibly profitable.
“You made a lot of money this morning,” Sarah comments, clearly happy about my earnings.
“I know,” I reply with a happy yawn, struggling to keep standing after waking up at 2:30 a.m. I really should get some rest because I have to be back again at 1 p.m. to get ready for the dinner shift.
“I’ll input your sales into the system and get you paid before…” Sarah’s voice trails off as her attention snaps to something—or someone—who is just walking into the café.
It’s Steve, who usually doesn’t come in this early. He’s scowling as usual. His clothes are crumpled, face unshaven, and eyes are blood red. Basically, he looks as if he hasn’t showered in weeks.
“What is he doing here?” I murmur, barely moving my lips.
“Oh my God, he’s a train wreck,” Sarah whispers back.
It hardly matters if he notices us staring and whispering about him because Steve’s attention is riveted on the sizable crowd who has lingered for breakfast and coffee after missing out on the scones.
“He’s probably seeing headcount as dollar signs,” Sarah mutters under her breath.
Steve’s glassy eyes skip right past me and zero in on Sarah. “Sarah, I need to speak with you in my office,” he says and continues on his way.
Watching him, Sarah’s expression turns grim, as if she’s witnessing a disaster unfold. She squeezes my arm tightly. “Damn it. I’ll make sure you get paid for your podcast pastries this morning,” she assures me.
I manage a small nod, concealing my surprise. I had believed that the days when Steve nearly ran this place into the ground were behind us, especially with Jeremy stepping in as his reliable caretaker. It seems, however, that I might have assumed too much.
I can’t have any delay in the funds owed to me. I desperately need the money I made this morning. On Saturday, I went hunting for a new place to live and found a charming cottage with a sprawling, grassy backyard right by a lake. I planned to use today’s earnings as a security deposit.
Too exhausted to linger long enough to learn the outcome of Sarah’s meeting with Steve, I have no choice but to leave. On my way home, I feel a wave of relief wash over me as an electronic notification from my bank pings on my phone—the funds have been deposited. Now I can rest easy.
When I get home, I head straight to bed. Upon waking, life resumes its familiar pace. As the days unfold, my pregnancy sometimes feels almost imperceptible, likely because I stay diligently hydrated. Determined not to stress my body unnecessarily, I have also begun reading books on maintaining a healthy and happy pregnancy. I’m grateful that Dr. Haskell encouraged me to start yoga; the combination of breath and movement has significantly improved my mental health.
These days, thoughts of Randy rarely cross my mind, even when Pete comes into the bakery full of enthusiasm, often boasting about Randy’s latest dominating performance on the show. “He’s going to win it all. He’s unbeatable,” Pete declares now and then.
I find it easier to listen to Pete’s updates because he never mentions Deanna. For that, I am grateful.
On Thursday afternoon, after wrapping up my segment on the podcast, I find myself with a few hours to spare before I need to hit the road for Naomi’s law school graduation. It’s a bittersweet moment because I know it could have been both of us celebrating if I hadn’t dropped out. I can’t help but wonder: What if I had persevered? I remember slogging through legal briefs, so disinterested that the words seemed to blur into one another. If I had pushed through, would I have crossed paths with Randy? As I sit at my desk, looking down at my still-flat belly, where our child is growing, I ponder these what-ifs.
And yet amidst these reflections, I realize I haven’t even told my parents about my pregnancy. Today’s podcast episode was a tumultuous one too. Poor Javier was in the hot seat as Linda, his mother, publicly announced his looming divorce, declaring to everyone that he and his wife, Jessie, had married too young and that Jessie needed time to “figure herself out.” Then, turning the spotlight on me unexpectedly, she asked, “Are you single, Gina?” That question, so pointed, still hangs in the air.
I wish I could have pretended not to hear her, but they’ve caught on to that trick by now. Instead of giving a direct answer, I met her inquiry with a stern glare, silently urging her to move on from that subject. No such luck.
“Are you?” she persisted.
Annoyed, I responded sharply, “Am I what, Linda?” I was exasperated by her insistence.
“Available, because you and Javi would make a good couple.”
My jaw might as well have hit my prep table. Was she really trying to set me up with her son who’s going through a divorce?
Thankfully, my mom came through on her promise to keep the empty nesters in check when they become overly critical of their children. With a tension-breaking joke, she said, “Okay, Linda, let her bake. We’ll take the dowry when Javi’s not still married. But for now, let’s go around the table and say something positive about our offspring, starting with you, Joyce.”
Without missing a beat and still in the posture she adopts when she’s on the brink of saying something negative, Joyce chimed in. “Well, Mike promised he wouldn’t need any money from me, ever. That’s a positive.”
Actually, that wasn’t quite a positive. Nobody can make me appreciate my parents more than Joyce.
Despite the challenges, I still enjoy doing the show with the ladies. They can be a handful, but mostly, they are fun to be around.
Now, back at home and dressed for the graduation, I find myself with some spare time. Naturally, I start scrolling through my “Gina The Baker” Facebook account, where I’ve accumulated six thousand friends and followers who adore my baking. As I browse, my gaze drifts to the search bar. I recall that Head Chef Total Domination, the popular cooking show, has a Facebook page.
It wouldn’t hurt to do a quick check-in, right? I briefly consider this before typing the show’s name into the search bar. A few clicks later, I’m on their page, ready to see what’s new.
But honestly, why does the first post have to be about Randy? As soon as I land on the page, there he is in the photo, his eyebrows drawn together in that intense focus he reserves for cooking. He’s carefully pinching spices into a frying pan. The comments below the photo are predictable: some praise his handsome looks and culinary skills, while others criticize his stern demeanor.
“He’s not nice,” one woman comments bluntly. She’s not entirely off the mark—Randy never pretends to be the friendliest person. But mean? Not exactly. Nitpicky? Definitely. A bit of a sourpuss? Sure. But when he smiles, it’s like the sky splits open to sprinkle us with cherry lollipops.
The same woman also notes the lack of chemistry between Randy and his co-contestant Deanna, adding that she can’t quite picture him having chemistry with anyone. I mean, this lady is extremely negative. It’s obvious that she’s not a happy camper. Yet she seems to be in the minority with her views on Randy and Deanna’s dynamic.
“They’re going to get together after this,” another person boldly asserts, claiming to bet her life on it.
Meanwhile, one guy expresses his frustration with the current season, wishing they would drop all the fluff and return to the straightforward cooking format of past seasons.
Feeling queasy from the comments, I decide to take a break and make myself a lukewarm cup of fresh ginger tea with the ginger I grated earlier this morning. Once settled back at my computer, I decide I’ve had enough of reading the opinions of strangers, so I shift my focus to simply looking at photos of Randy. I miss him so much. Imagining a future without being by his side is daunting.
Deanna is incredibly lucky, and judging from photos of her, very pretty. Although it’s challenging, I’m trying to recognize the positives in their relationship. After all, she knew him first. They were together before he ever met me. This situation has taught me a powerful lesson: sexual chemistry doesn’t necessarily lay the foundation for a lasting relationship, no matter how electric it is. Apparently, successful relationships have that extra something Randy and I could never find together.
I stumble upon a post with a clickbait headline that reads, “Did you see that?” accompanied by the hashtag #BunsOfSteel. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I click to play the video. In it, Deanna walks past Randy and playfully slaps his tight bum. Randy responds with a playful finger wag and a snicker before he continues cooking. As I scroll through the comments, my throat tightens, each word feeling like it’s choking me.
“They’re a cute couple.”
“I wonder how that tush felt against her hand.”
“Do you see the way he looks at her?”
Then I read a comment that snaps me out of my scrolling frenzy. “How is that not sexual harassment?” I realize I’ve been clutching my stomach the entire time. Glancing at the top of the screen, I notice I’m late.
“Oh no!” I jump to my feet. Then I grab my keys and rush out of my apartment, more determined than ever to put emotional and mental distance between Randy and me. Lingering on these feelings just won’t be healthy, especially as we navigate the complexities of co-parenting in the future.
* * *
It’s Friday morning,and I’m relieved that the week is finally winding down. I got to the café early today after hearing that two of our three breakfast cooks were out sick, and Sarah was in a bind. With the flu making the rounds, Calypso Café strictly enforces a policy against coming to work ill. Despite desperately needing every extra minute of sleep, I couldn’t say no when she asked me to help out. After all the support Sarah has given me, stepping in to assist her was the least I could do.
Pulling into the parking lot, I’m taken aback by the scene before me. The café opens in just over an hour, yet Sarah, Rita, and four other staff members are huddled in front of the door.
I quickly pull into the first available parking space and jump out of the car, my curiosity spiking. I hurry over to the group, anxious to find out what’s wrong.
“What’s going on?” I ask, trying to catch my breath as I approach them.
It doesn’t take long to identify the issue, but Rita confirms it anyway. “The door is chained.”
My jaw drops as we exchange looks of disbelief, all of us seemingly trapped in the same unexpected nightmare.
“Have you spoken to Steve yet?” I ask, my gaze fixed on Sarah, who is busy with her phone.
“I tried reaching him, but he’s not answering,” she explains. Lowering her voice, she adds, “Now I’m calling Jeremy.” Holding the phone to her ear, she waits for him to pick up.
Rita, clearly furious, crosses her arms and shakes her head. “Well, he finally did it,” she says bitterly. “Steve has been trying to run this place into the ground ever since I started working here, and now he’s done it.”
Carl, one of the cooks, looks worried. “So what does that mean? Do we go home without getting paid?”
Paul, another cook, chimes in. “That’s right! It’s payday.”
Like everyone else, I feel a wave of panic. Although I haven’t relied on a paycheck from Calypso for a while, thanks to my podcast gig, the thought of this place closing down hits hard. All of my friends are here; my social life revolves around this café. It’s a third home to me, after my apartment and my parents’ house.
Just then, Sarah’s face changes as she hears a response on the phone. “Jeremy, there’s a huge chain on every door,” she says, her voice filled with a sigh of relief.
Sarah listens intently to Jeremy on the phone, her expression fluctuating between surprise and concern as he speaks. “Uh-huh,” she repeats several times, her eyebrows darting up and down, mirroring the gravity of the conversation.
Suddenly, Jeremy says something that halts her midsentence, and all of us watch her closely, hanging on the silent communication. She nods slowly as if accepting and processing his words.
“The code is all eight digits of Steve’s birthday and 3458,” she finally responds. “Thank you so much, Jeremy. I’m sorry this happened too. I’ll let everyone know.”
She ends the call and turns to face us, ready to share the news. We are all anxious to hear what Jeremy has said about the situation.