25. Chapter 25 #2
My head spun from the emotional whiplash of this situation.
The whole week, really. She’d not only thought I should be running my own bakery, just like Max and Lex and all my friends did, but she’d been goading me on this whole time until I’d snap and fight back. And it had taken a whole year to do so.
“So you were just waiting for me to stand up to you?”
She shook her head, her dark hand a stark contrast against the white marble of the countertop as she leaned on it for support.
“I was waiting for you to prove to me and, more importantly, yourself that you had what it takes to be a boss. And you do.” She met my eyes, her own lit with a fire that could rival Hattie’s.
“There’s a difference between being kind and letting others walk all over you.
If you don’t know the difference, those who do will trample all over you until you shatter. ”
I swallowed hard, Besserman’s face flashing behind my eyes.
I’d given in to his pestering for a date, and when I pushed back with boundaries, he’d retaliated with the biggest trampling I’d received.
And I’d let him. I didn’t fight him about it, release my own statement.
Nothing. I’d rolled over, taken the beating, and ran away with my tail tucked between my legs.
And hadn’t his trampling shattered me? It had shattered my confidence, for sure. I didn’t just abandon my dream, I’d thought I was no longer good enough to achieve it despite already doing so.
Knowing what I knew now about myself and my potential diagnosis, I understood better why I’d reacted the way I did. It allowed for more compassion toward myself—something I’d starved myself of for too long. And it gave me hope.
Knowing what I might have gave me a game plan. I couldn’t treat what I didn’t know existed. If I got diagnosed and treated, presumably the tasks I’d struggled with so badly at my old bakery would be less painful to do. Easier, maybe. I wouldn’t have to swim with one arm tied behind my back anymore.
Gale rested a hand on my shoulder, oblivious to my inner turmoil. “I never would’ve messed with you this long if I’d have thought I could just tell you to grow a spine.”
“What?” I murmured, unsure I’d understood her.
Why couldn’t she tell me? Even if constructive criticism submerged me in boiling water, I’d managed to survive culinary school. Barely. Constructive criticism was necessary.
“You and I both know you would’ve beaten yourself up about it and stressed yourself out bending over backwards to please me.
It’s just the way you are.” She smiled gently.
“Which isn’t necessarily bad, just something that can easily become harmful if you let it go too far.
But I needed a way to get you to fight back on your own. ”
As much as I wanted to argue, I couldn’t.
Not with any hope of being right, anyway.
If she’d just told me to be more confrontational or assertive, I’d overanalyze each of our interactions, stressing about whether I came across as assertive enough.
I’d only change my behavior around her because I knew she wanted that.
Meanwhile, I’d be kicking myself for being so spineless in the first place.
The thought of her going to such great lengths to irk me for the past year still raised my hackles, but at least I understood it now.
Somewhere under the adrenaline flooding my system and the shaking in my legs, standing up for myself felt good .
Empowering, almost. Something I hadn’t felt since the pre-Besserman days.
Maybe I could handle running my own bakery again, rejection sensitivity and all.
When my mouth finally decided to work again, I offered a small smile. “Thank you.”
She arched a graying eyebrow, letting her hand drop from my shoulder to perch on her hip. “For pretending I couldn’t hear you and shooting down your ideas?”
I scowled, though I wasn’t nearly as irritated anymore. “No, I’m still not happy with you about that. I’m thanking you because you helped me. In your own way.”
She nodded graciously, a pleased smile creasing her face. “Of course, dear.”
I took a deep breath, savoring the sweet scent of the bakery.
I didn’t know if I was ready to run my own bakery again just yet, what with business licenses and all that hoopla, but I wanted to.
Besserman wasn’t here, and if he was, I wouldn’t roll over and take whatever he dished out anymore.
Max, Lex, Gale, Cendy, and so many others were picking up the pieces of my shattered confidence and painstakingly helping me glue them back together.
I scanned the front of the bakery, complete with a few charming black and white tables and chairs along the wall.
The massive display case spanned the majority of the space in front of us.
With a few updates, My Batter Half could become the cutest bakery in Detroit.
Maybe not the most elegant, since Priscilla’s snooty bakery took the cake on that one, but definitely the cutest.
I’d revamp the lighting, so it was more soft and cozy and less operating suite fluorescent, repaint the walls to enhance the dusty pink and replace the white with dove gray.
I’d capitalize on the punny and romantic name, adding fun names to the specials, drinks, and desserts.
Couples here on a date could get a free or discounted dessert to encourage more customers.
Hearts or polka dots—tastefully done, of course—could make nice accents.
Upgrading the espresso machine and drink options could really kick it up a notch, too.
And that was just the beginning.
An idea scratched at the back of my mind, one I’d been beating away with a spatula for months now. Maybe I could do it after all.
I wanted to do it.
I turned my attention back to Gale, who’d begun polishing the glass on the display case. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but when exactly are you thinking of retiring?”