Chapter 24
ALICE
"Thanks again, Rebecca. I'll send over the signed contract tomorrow. Talk soon." I end the call and place my phone carefully on the coffee table, and it’s only then I notice my hands are shaking.
It's done. I've officially accepted the position as COO of Get Fresh – Rooted Pantry's biggest competitor. Oscar's competitor.
But have I done the right thing? My mind says yes, but my heart and shaking body tell a different story.
The irony doesn't escape me. Only last week, I turned down this same offer because I couldn't abandon Rooted Pantry — couldn't abandon the company I built, the people I'd hired, the vision I'd cultivated over years of hard work and dedication.
Now I'm jumping ship at the first sign of trouble. What does that say about me?
But, no. I know it’s more complicated than that. What Oscar did is only the first dick move of many. If I stay at Rooted Pantry, I’ll be making myself vulnerable to many more devious schemes.
Grabbing the half-empty bottle of Cabernet from the coffee table, I refill my glass. I've been drinking since I got home from turning in my resignation letter, and now that I’ve called Rebecca I don’t know what to do with myself next.
I should feel vindicated, maybe even triumphant. Oscar will know soon enough that I've joined his competition. I'll be actively working against him, using all my insider knowledge of Rooted Pantry to help Get Fresh gain the lead in the industry. It's the perfect revenge.
So why does it still feel like I'm the one who's been betrayed? Like, despite what I’m doing, I still feel like Oscar is the winner in all of this?
I take another large sip of wine and lean back against the couch, staring at the ceiling.
The living room feels too quiet, too empty.
I've lived here for five years, but I've spent so little waking time in the house that it's never truly felt like home. It’s just a place to sleep between long days at the office.
The office that is no longer mine.
A fresh wave of anger surges through me.
How could he do this? How could he look me in the eyes, tell me he cares about me, make me believe in us again, all while knowing what was coming?
The layoffs, Sydney, all of it — he must have authorized it before we even left for San Diego.
While I was lying in his arms, believing in our future, he was sneaking in the back door and taking what’s mine.
Like the vulture he is.
The worst part is that I knew all of this about him! I knew that he’s like this, and yet once he said the right words I melted at his feet.
I drain my glass and set it down with a slam. Sitting here wallowing isn't helping. I need to do something, anything, to stop thinking about Oscar and his betrayal.
My gaze lands on the closet in the hallway — specifically, on the top shelf where I keep the box with pictures from days past. Before I can second-guess myself, I'm up and crossing the room, pulling a chair over to reach the high shelf.
Grabbing the box, I take it over to the coffee table and pop off the lid. It was only the other week I opened it to look at old pictures of me and Oscar, but that already feels like another lifetime. So much has happened since then that I wish I could erase.
Pulling out a stack of college photos, I steel myself. The emotions come hard and fast, though, anger and grief hitting in alternating waves.
We look so young, so hopeful. So unaware of how quickly it would all fall apart.
I flip through the photos one by one, each a snapshot of moments I'd convinced myself didn't matter anymore. But they did matter. They still do. That's the problem.
Struck by a sudden idea, I stuff the photos in my back pocket and stand. This isn't helping. I need to cauterize this wound once and for all.
In the kitchen, I rummage through cabinets until I find what I'm looking for — a small ceramic pot I once used for a fondue phase that lasted approximately one dinner party.
I place it on the stovetop then tear a photo in half — Oscar and me at some picnic or something — and drop the pieces into the pot.
It doesn't feel as satisfying as I'd hoped.
I tear another, and another, creating a small pile of paper fragments.
I grab the matches I keep for tapered candles, strike one, and drop it into the pot, watching the flame flare to life. This is it. The symbolic end of Oscar and me. I'll burn away these memories like he burned me — not once, but twice.
The paper catches and begins to curl in the heat. The smoke rises, acrid and thin.
It feels childish, this little ceremony. But I need the closure, need the finality of watching these memories turn to ash.
I grab another photo — from that summer when we went to visit his parents. It was a rare break from all the work we were doing, and at the time it was one of the best weeks of my life, getting to enjoy the closeness of his family, the way they accepted me like I was one of them.
Was it all a lie? Was Oscar always this calculating, this ruthless? Did he just keep it all under wraps? Is he some kind of sociopath?
I don't know anymore. And that uncertainty hurts almost as much as the betrayal itself.
The smoke from the pot grows thicker, and I realize I should probably open a window. But as I turn to do so, a loud knock at the front door startles me.
I glance at the clock — it's after nine. Who would be visiting this late?
Another insistent knock. "Alice! Hey, it’s me!"
Sydney. I'd forgotten she was coming over. She texted earlier, something about bringing hugs and junk food, but in my wine-soaked misery, it slipped my mind.
I hurry to the door and open it to find Sydney standing with a sympathetic look and a tote bag of goodies.
"How you holding up?” she asks.
"Poorly. I’m sorry, Syd. I’m so sorry about your job. I have news, though, and I can–”
She sniffs the air. "Is something burning?"
My eyes widen as I suddenly remember the pot. "Shit!"
We both rush toward the kitchen just as the smoke detector starts its ear-splitting wail.
The smoke from the pot has turned from thin wisps to thick clouds, and to my horror, the hand towels hanging on the microwave handle and dangling over the counter have caught fire, flames licking upward toward the wooden cabinets.
"Oh my God!" Sydney shrieks. "Fire extinguisher?"
"Under the sink!" I shout.
She emerges with it, fumbling with the pin as I grab a pot lid to try to smother the flames in the ceramic pot. The towels are still burning, and panic rises in my throat as the flames climb higher.
Sydney finally gets the extinguisher working and directs a spray of white foam at the burning towels. The chemical smell mixes with the smoke, making me cough as I back away from the stove.
It takes only seconds for the foam to extinguish the flames, but it feels like hours. When it's over, we stand in my kitchen, panting, surrounded by smoke and the white residue of the fire extinguisher covering every surface.
The smoke detector continues its persistent beeping until Sydney grabs a broom and pokes at it to make it stop. The sudden silence is almost as jarring as the noise.
"What," Sydney says, setting down the extinguisher, "the actual hell, Alice?"
“I know. I can’t believe I didn’t think about the dish towels. I’m a mess.”
I stare at the chaos — the half-burned photos still visible in the pot, the charred remains of my kitchen towels, the white foam dripping from my cabinets onto the floor — and something inside me breaks.
A laugh bubbles up from my chest, high-pitched and edging on hysterical. "I was— I was trying to burn photos of Oscar," I manage between gasps of laughter that quickly morph into sobs. "And I almost burned down my kitchen instead."
"Oh, honey." Sydney's arms are around me in an instant, and I collapse into her embrace, tears flowing freely now.
"I'm a disaster," I sob against her shoulder. "A complete and utter disaster."
"You're not a disaster," she says, stroking my hair. "You're just having a very bad day. Week. Whatever."
“Life,” I correct.
She guides me back to the living room and sits me down on the couch, then disappears into the kitchen. I hear the sound of windows opening, water running, the clatter of something being moved. A few minutes later, she returns with a glass of water and hands it to me.
"Drink this. You're dehydrated from all that wine."
“I didn’t drink that…” I notice the wine bottle, emptier than I thought it was, and close my mouth.
Instead, I take a big gulp, the cool water soothing my throat, raw from smoke and crying. When I set the glass down, I peek at the bag Sydney brought, now sitting on my coffee table.
"What's in there?" I ask, my voice hoarse.
"Ice cream. Macaroons. Tequila. The essentials." She sits beside me. "I figured we could do with a proper pity party after today."
I wince at the reminder. "I'm so sorry, Syd. About your job. I should have been there. I should have—"
"Stop." She holds up a hand. "This isn't on you. It's on Oscar and his corporate d-bags."
The mention of his name sends a fresh wave of pain through me. "I took the job at Get Fresh," I say quietly. "I start next week. I’m gonna see if they have space for you there."
Her eyes widen. "Wow. That was fast."
"I couldn't stay," I explain, twisting my hands in my lap. "Not after this. Not knowing he was behind it all."
Sydney is quiet for a moment, an uncharacteristic hesitation in her usually forthright demeanor. "About that," she finally says. "Oscar came by the office today. Looking for you."
My head snaps up. "What? Why?"
"He said he wanted to apologize. That he didn't authorize the layoffs." She shrugs. "He seemed… I don't know. Sincere, maybe? And word is that they are reversing the layoffs. Not that it matters all that much. I can’t stay there either after what he did to you."
I shake my head. "It's damage control. He's trying to save face now that word's gotten out about how he handled this." I squeeze her hand. “And thank you for your loyalty… but don’t leave on account of me.”
"I’ll think about it," she allows. "But as far as Oscar… he seemed pretty desperate to talk to you."
"Of course he did," I say bitterly. "He doesn’t like that I’ve seen the true him, and he wants to talk to me so he can manipulate my impression of him. That’s all."
"Look, I'm not defending him. I'm just telling you what happened."
I lean back against the couch, suddenly exhausted. "It doesn't matter anyway. I've already accepted the Get Fresh offer."
"You could always back out," she suggests. "People do it all the time."
"And go back to what? Working for a man who betrayed me? Again?" I shake my head. "I can't do it, Syd. I can't be around him."
"Because you hate him?" she asks. "Or because you still love him?"
The question lands like a physical blow. I open my mouth to deny it, but the words won't come. Because she's right. Despite everything, despite the pain and the betrayal and the years of anger, I still love Oscar. And that's what makes this hurt so much worse.
"It doesn't matter how I feel," I finally say. "He made his choice. He chose the bottom line over me. Over us. Classic Oscar.”
“I thought so too…” She hesitates. “When he came to the office, Alice, I wanted to punch him. I did. But then I started thinking… what if he's telling the truth, though? What if he really didn't know about the layoffs?"
"Stop." I stand up, needing to move, to do something with this restless energy. "Just stop. I can't… I can't go there. I can't let myself hope again. It hurts too much when he disappoints me."
Sydney rises too, catching my arm to stop my pacing. "Alice, look at me."
I reluctantly meet her gaze.
"Whatever was happening between you and Oscar… it was real. At least for you."
"It was real for me," I admit, my voice barely a whisper. "That's the problem."
"What if it was real for him too?" She squeezes my arm. "What if this really is just a terrible misunderstanding?"
"Then he'll have to live with the consequences," I say, pulling away. "Just like I've had to all these years."
She sighs, recognizing my stubborn tone. "Fine. I'll drop it. But promise me you'll at least think about talking to him before you make any final decisions."
I don't answer directly. Instead, I gesture to the grocery bag. "You mentioned more alcohol?"
Sydney gives me a look that says this conversation isn't over, but allows the change of subject. "And macaroons."
Despite everything, I manage a small smile. "You're a good friend, Sydney."
"The best," she agrees, pulling out the tequila. "Now let's get properly drunk and forget about men who complicate our lives… and not start any more fires, okay?"
“I need to clean up the kitchen,” I protest.
“I’ll get it later.” She opens the tequila and hands it over to me, sans glass. “Let’s watch some bad TV. What do you say?”
As she scrolls through shows, I try to focus on the future, on everything ahead of me. I’m starting fresh with a new job, leaving Oscar and the mess that comes with him behind.
I’m looking at the road ahead… but, unfortunately, still getting tripped up by all the steps I already took. Oscar will always be a part of me, no matter how badly he hurt me. The thing to do is – somehow – learn to live with that unfortunate reality.