20. He Loves Me
On mornings like this, I find myself questioning the decision I made about Rayna’s job offer. I proposed a similar arrangement to her as the one I had with Calypso: baking in her kitchen overnight following the podcast day and selling pastries during their morning rush. Unfortunately, even though this setup could potentially bring more customers to her business, she didn’t have enough staff to handle the increase. However, Rayna was open to the idea of gradually expanding her operations and wanted me to be a part of that growth.
She gave me a week to consider her offer, which I graciously declined after my graduation ceremony from culinary school last weekend. While my graduation might not have been as prestigious as Naomi’s law school, it held equal significance for me. Receiving my certificate and hearing my instructors call me one of their most gifted students brought a moment of clarity. I realized that I wanted to focus more on expanding the business that stemmed from the podcast.
My parents supported this decision wholeheartedly; my father even secured a new venue where I could sell my pastries that Monday. That place is Fannie’s Flowers, where Ms. Fannie is thrilled to host me. Since I’ve started setting up shop in her store twice a week, her florist business has flourished.
Now each episode night, I manage to catch four to five hours of sleep before waking up to bake into the early morning. After another quick two or three hours of rest, I load the baked goods into a van uniquely decorated to promote the podcast. It has images of the four smiling hosts on one side. Gina, the baker—me—delicately decorating a macaron, adorns the other side. This van, a thoughtful purchase by my dad, not only transports my pastries to Fannie’s Flowers but also shuttles podcast hosts to promotional events across town and throughout the state.
Yes, the ladies have become quite popular, and a significant part of their appeal seems to be linked to my participation in their conversations. My discomfort is evidently clear, and it turns out that older viewers enjoy seeing how uneasy the ladies make me. Apparently, those my age appreciate watching me stand up to them while being both respectful and assertive. However, I still try to stick to the baking, keep my head down, and stay out of the table talk as much as possible.
Oddly, at this very moment, I find myself distracted by their podcast topic, which is why I feel as though I want to be anywhere else but here. As I methodically measure flour and crack eggs, the conversation turns unexpectedly personal—Bree, Carrie’s unmarried daughter, is pregnant. I’ve always known that one day, a podcast topic might inch narrowly close to my own predicament, and today it is happening.
Here’s the situation as it unfolded a moment ago:
Joyce, never one for subtlety, blurted out, “Well, how far along is she?”
Carrie’s response came through clenched teeth and narrowed eyes. “I don’t know because she kept it a secret from us.”
Under my breath, I muttered, “Maybe because she didn’t want to be the subject of gossip.”
Unfazed by the tension, Linda, devoid of any tact, pressed further. “She hid it? Who’s the father?”
Now we’re engulfed in the prolonged silence that follows. Carrie seems to have shrunk into her chair. Despite being the one who brought up the topic, it’s clear she wishes it would disappear just as quickly, away from the prying eyes and ears of the other women.
“I don’t know,” Carrie finally responds, her voice low and her demeanor reluctant. “Apparently, she doesn’t tell me anything anymore.” Her arms are crossed tightly against her chest, her body language almost protesting her own words.
I can predict her next move, and sure enough, Carrie turns to me. “What do you think, Gina?”
As I stir vanilla extract into my brown butter cream, I feel my cheeks burn. I understand why Carrie has directed this question at me. I’ve noticed a recurring activity: whenever the conversation veers into negative territory about one of their children, the mothers tend to draw me into the discussion, expecting me to offer a defense on their offspring’s behalf. I’m not even sure they’re aware they do this, but here I am, put on the spot as their curious eyes remain fixed on me.
Meeting their gazes, my brain attempts to churn out the right response. Should I reveal that I’m in the same boat as Carrie? I knew her in high school, but she and I ran in totally different circles, being that she was two grades higher than me. My scandalous secret would certainly take the heat off Carrie. All this time, while baking, selling, and making public appearances, I’ve been pregnant too. But am I ready to disclose the identity of the father—Randy Thorn, the man they’ve predicted will ride off into the sunset with the flawless Deanna Blume? No way.
Realizing I can’t prolong my silence any longer, I finally open my mouth to speak. After another brief pause, I know what must be said. “I don’t know, Carrie,” I start with a flippant shrug. “Maybe Bree felt it was safer keeping the information to herself.”
Carrie’s expression crumbles into a deep frown, fierce enough to intimidate the boogeyman. “Of course I’m safe!” she snaps, her frustration evident. “Who’s safer to tell than her own mother?”
I nearly respond with a sharp comment about the relentless dirt-dishing that goes on at their table and suggest that maybe her daughter is withholding news because of it. But I hold back, opting for a more tactful approach. “Listen, Carrie, there are many reasons why someone might keep a pregnancy private initially. For example, some prefer to wait until they’re past the first trimester before sharing the news, just to ensure everything is progressing okay.”
The ladies nod in agreement, each acknowledging the validity of the point. I’m relieved and certain my diplomatic response got them off my back for the time being.
“But didn’t she eventually tell you?” Joyce asks Carrie. “She must have said something for you to find out.”
Carrie’s face turns a deep shade of red, and I instantly regret the turn the conversation has taken. It’s clear she discovered her daughter’s pregnancy in a less than ideal way.
“I called her, and somehow, I heard her speaking to someone. She didn’t know she had answered my call,” Carrie confesses, clearly puzzled by the incident.
“Ah, a butt dial or something,” Norie suggests, nodding confidently as if she’s familiar with the concept.
“No,” I mutter under my breath, knowing they can’t hear me.
“Yes, that’s it,” my mom agrees, mistakenly confirming the incorrect term for what likely happened. I suspect that Bree thought she had silenced her mom’s call but accidentally answered it instead.
Joyce slaps the table. “Well, there you go. She’s talking to her friend about it before saying anything to you,” she deduces a bit too bluntly.
Carrie falls silent once more, retreating inwardly.
I sigh, shaking my head. Joyce’s observation, though accurate, has clearly stung Carrie. Seeing her hurt, I contemplate whether it’s time to share my own secret.
Before I can say anything, my mom speaks up. “Maybe she just didn’t want her special news shared with the entire world.”
“What do you mean, Faye?” Carrie demands.
Despite her cohost’s defensive tone, my mom doesn’t back down. “We must take responsibility for gossiping about the parts of our kids’ lives that they might prefer to keep private. That’s all I’m saying. We enjoy the stories, sure, but there could be a price,” she explains calmly yet firmly.
“We’re not gossiping,” Joyce retorts sharply, likely defensive because she’s the most frequent gossip of the group.
“Oh, you’re gossiping,” I blurt out, unable to hold my tongue any longer.
The shocked expressions they direct at me make me feel as if I’ve been caught stealing the last truffle-infused grilled cheese sandwich my mom prepares before every Thursday podcast. They really love those sandwiches.
“Gina!” a man’s voice booms, slicing through the tension.
All eyes, previously fixed on me, turn in unison. Standing before us is Chef Randy Thorn, his presence as striking as ever. The surprise of seeing him causes me to release the teaspoon of baking soda I had been holding between my fingers.
“Randy?” I barely whisper, finding my voice again.
He approaches me cautiously, his hands raised, palms out in a gesture of peace. “Gina, I know you’re pregnant,” he declares, unintentionally disclosing my secret to the very people I had hoped to keep it from.
I catch a brief glimpse of the ladies as they erupt in gasps, but I can’t focus on them for long; I’m too stunned by Randy’s presence.
“Gina, you’re not pregnant, are you?” my dad asks, his expression clouded with uncertainty.
The heartbreak in his eyes is upsetting, and even more so when I see his shoulders sag as he reads the truth in mine. I know I owe my parents a thorough explanation, but that will have to wait. Right now, my attention is torn between the concern on my dad’s face and Randy, who is steadily approaching us.
It’s Randy who captures my full attention, as he’s all I can see. “Babe…” he starts. My gaze locks onto every detail of his face. The dark circles under his eyes contrast starkly with his gaunt complexion. He looks utterly exhausted. “I’ve been missing you terribly,” he confesses.
“How did you find out I was pregnant?” I decide to ask outright, now that the secret is already out.
“I knew she was hiding something,” Joyce declares victoriously, her voice rising as she punctuates her triumph with a loud hand clap.
“Gina? Are you truly pregnant?” My mom’s upset voice cuts through the tension-filled air that has settled around us.
“Please, Mrs. Emerson, could I finish?” Randy respectfully asks. “I’ve been practicing what I want to say to your daughter on the drive over, and I don’t want to forget it.”
Silenced by the moment, I watch my mom. Though anguished, she gives Randy the nod to continue. The backyard falls quiet with anticipation.
Randy clears his throat. “It seems the world believes there’s something going on between Deanna Blume and me. But aside from our long-standing friendship and her role as my business manager, there’s nothing else.”
“Then why were you cozying up to her?” Joyce’s voice rings out, capturing everyone’s attention.
Randy and I quickly turn to face her.
“That’s a great question, Joyce,” Linda chimes in, nodding in agreement to emphasize her point.
“There was no cozying up, I assure you,” Randy responds firmly.
“But you and Deanna Blume were romantically linked, at least at one point, weren’t you?” Norie interjects, her arms crossed defiantly as if she’s skeptical of his denial.
The scene feels almost surreal. It’s as if the ladies have spontaneously decided to interview him, each one eager to probe deeper.
Randy’s face tightens into a deep frown, weariness etched into his features. “Deanna and I were never romantically linked.”
“That’s not what you said on the show,” Norie retorts.
He shakes his head, and I can see in his eyes that he’s desperately looking for a way out of this unexpected interrogation.
But just as I’m about to intervene, he says, “They asked me questions during interviews, but my guess is they twisted my words to make the show more interesting. I would have thought the cooking alone was interesting enough since I really gave it my all.”
“But she slapped you on the rear end!” Carrie interjects, as if that single action undermines Randy’s explanation.
“Yes. She was encouraging me to get moving. That challenge was particularly tough, and I was falling behind,” Randy explains.
Carrie tilts her head skeptically. “But she jumped into your arms, and you spun her around,” she presses on, her tone insistent, demanding further clarification.
“Oh,” Randy responds, nodding as if the memory has just clicked into place. “Yes, that was right after I won the second competition. As my manager, she was really pumped, whispering in my ear, ‘We’re back, we’re back, we’re so back.’” Suddenly he stiffens, appearing conflicted, then scratching the back of his head, he says, “I don’t think I can say more about what happened on the show. I signed an NDA, and I’m pretty sure I said too much already.”
Gradually, all five hosts nod, seeming to accept his explanation. Relief washes over me. Randy has weathered their relentless questioning and emerged unscathed.
“So, you didn’t win?” my mom asks abruptly.
Her inquiry clearly catches Randy off guard. He hesitates, visibly conflicted. “Again, I can’t say, Mrs. Emerson. Even though I really want to answer you… I just can’t.” Fatigue is evident in his voice.
Before anyone else can jump in with more questions, I interject firmly. “I believe him.” I say it again, more emphatically, to silence any doubts. “I believe him.” My voice is urgent and breathless.
Randy and I lock gazes as he steps closer, now just within reach. I pull him toward me, closing the distance. At this moment, the rest of the world seems to fade away, leaving just the two of us.
“That was rough,” he whispers, his voice light with a chuckle.
I let out a breathy laugh in response. “Yeah. Sorry about that.”
“No,” he shakes his head gently, frowning earnestly. “Don’t be. I want you to know that the only woman I’m in love with is you.”
Tears well up in my eyes as I whisper back, “I love you too.”
Randy’s fingers gently stroke the side of my neck, and I lean into his tender touch, feeling a rush of shivers down my spine.
“Hi,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion.
Tears streaming down my cheeks, I muster a joyful, “Hi.”
Our lips seem to pull toward each other like magnets, but we restrain ourselves, knowing this isn’t the place or time for more. Instead, we simply beam at each other as he tenderly wipes the tears from my face.
“You need help with this?” he asks, nodding toward my workstation.
“Okay,” I manage to whisper, my throat tight with emotion.
Just then, my mom’s voice cuts through the air. “Alrighty then,” she begins, perhaps attempting to lighten the mood. “Keeping with our standards, I guess it’s my turn to dish about my daughter.” It’s hard to tell if she’s trying to be funny. Her tone shifts as she continues. “So why do you think it has taken two months for my daughter, who I have a very good relationship with, to tell me she’s pregnant?” Her question hangs in the air, clearly not meant as a joke. She’s genuinely upset.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, I realize it’s time to address everyone—my parents, the ladies, and even the listeners. “I’m sorry, everybody. Should’ve, would’ve, could’ve, but I’m only human. It was hard to accept that the man I am deeply attracted to and have fallen in love with was portrayed as falling for another woman…”
Joyce cuts me off with a question. “How long have you two known each other?”
Surprised, I jerk my head back. Are they even listening to my apology? Randy and I exchange perplexed frowns, thrown off by the sudden shift.
“A year,” I respond, still a bit flustered.
“Thirteen months and twenty-three days,” Randy specifies more accurately.
“Are you going to marry her?” Carrie interjects abruptly.
My eyes widen in shock, nearly popping from their sockets as I gasp, horrified by the bluntness of her question.
Before I can shut down this line of questioning, Randy answers with a calm and steady, “Yes. One day, yes. That’s if she’ll have me.” Suddenly, he stiffens like a strong thought just came to mind. “I’m sorry,” he begins, and then he turns his attention to my mom and then dad. “Mrs. and Mr. Emerson, with all due respect, I can’t wait any longer. I need to kiss your daughter. And I’ve been missing her badly, so it’s going to be really juicy. Can you handle it?”
First, my parents exchange a look, silently checking in with each other.
My mom’s grin then stretches from ear to ear as she enthusiastically replies, “We can handle it.”
My dad, with a slightly more restrained smile, gives a thumbs-up.
And so, I’m soon feeling as if I’m floating on air as I become reacquainted with the taste of Randy’s mouth, the pressure of his tongue indulging in mine, his lips slipping passionately between my lips, and soon his excitement can be felt in all the right places.