Chapter 9: Olive
Infuriating man. When I get back to work, Lilah and Luis won’t stop watching me, likely waiting to see if I will snap. I know I have a temper, but it’s not like I’m a bomb ready to go off when jostled. I’m tougher than that.
And, okay, maybe I was a tiny bit horrible to Brooks. I’m well aware that I don’t handle rejection well. It’s why I never date. Lashing out because he made me feel unwanted might not be the most adult reaction, but he hurt my feelings.
Ignoring my audience, I push Brooks out of my head and bury my feelings in my work. I sink myself into the flow of the bakery and do not think about him at all. I don’t think about his dark blue eyes as I’m scaling out ingredients. I don’t daydream about his lips on mine while I’m making pastry cream. I sure as hell don’t look at my hands as I shape tart shells and wonder what his hands would feel like gripping my hips. I fill tiramisu jars and I most certainly don’t fantasize about Brooks filling me.
After a few hours of this, I’m losing my mind. I have to get out of here. I’m going to scream if I have to spend one more minute trying to look zen while the last 24 hours play on repeat in my head. I just want to lose my shit in peace.
I check in with the front-of-house staff and head upstairs. I live in the apartment over the bakery and keep my office up here where I’m less likely to be distracted. There’s never a shortage of behind-the-scenes work in a bakery like this and I like to do it alone.
I crank up some background music, send out an order to my grocery supplier, make the schedule for the next two weeks, reply to emails, and compile recipes for new desserts. I send everything to the printer, and then I can relax.
At least, I try to. I sit down with my Kindle, intending to read, but my mind keeps wandering. To a man who doesn’t even fucking want me. To a man who regrets kissing me. I make a growling sound in my throat and toss my reader aside. Wine might not be an actual solution, but I pour myself an extra-large glass before sinking back down on the couch and staring at the ceiling feeling sorry for myself.
And that is how Lilah finds me.
Regaining consciousness, the first thing I feel is someone taking something out of my hand. Then my sister is whispering, “Pad Thai. Wake up for Pad Thai.” The smell of peanuts and fish sauce and lime sink in faster than her words and I groan. I’m so hungry. My rumbling stomach is enough to bring me the rest of the way into the land of the conscious.
Laughing, I realize I fell asleep, wine in hand. Thank goodness Lilah took it before waking me up all the way. My vintage couch may be ugly as shit, but it’s the most comfortable thing in the world. No need to spill perfectly good wine on it.
Lilah holds my wine glass back out to me with a wry smile. “Can you be trusted with this, Ollie?”
“Don’t call me that. You know I hate that nickname.” I take my glass back, trying to give her a haughty look but since I just woke up drooling on my couch with a crick in my neck, I’m sure it lacks the desired effect. Lilah rolls her eyes at me and pulls out cartons of takeout.
“Thank you for dinner. That was nice of you,” I tell her as I reach out and squeeze her hand.
“Oh, I’m not being nice.” She gives me a truly devious grin. “I’m waiting to hear the dirt.”
“And all you brought was Pad Thai? It won’t be enough to pry all the details out of me.”
Lilah doesn’t answer but gives me a precarious smile, her mouth stuffed with noodles as she reaches behind her and pulls a bottle of Chardonnay out of her bag.
She hands it to me and I nod. “Yeah, ok, that ought to do it.”
It doesn’t take long to fill her in. No one understands me better than Lilah. Our childhood was a hot mess. When I was six and Lilah was four, mom died in a car accident and then our sperm donor of a father abandoned us. Just dropped us off at our grandmother’s house and never came back. Now Lilah has trust issues and I don’t cope with rejection well. Needless to say, we don’t date much. Therapy has worked wonders, and I know we both like to think we are both fully actualized adults, but works-in-progress is probably more accurate.
In some ways, I think we got off easy compared with our brothers. Asher, my twin, is our eldest sibling, even if only by 23 minutes. He grew up overnight, feeling responsible for everyone’s happiness and safety. And younger brother, Lukas, went through a wild streak the likes of which Wine Country has yet to see again.
Our baby sister Julia was only two when our world imploded so she doesn’t remember either of our parents and she’s the only one who seemed to escape the emotional scars the rest of us are still working through.
Lilah and I work our way through the wine and spend the evening watching stupid movies. By the time I tuck myself into bed, I finally feel like I’m back on solid ground.
For the most part, I should be able to avoid dealing with Brooks in person. Email should cover any necessary communication, right? I probably won’t even see him for at least a week or two. Which is good. Because I do not want to see him. At least this is what I tell myself as I drift off to sleep.
Three days later…
It’s been one of those mornings. Front of house is understaffed after not one, but two people called out sick. The door of my convection oven broke so we have to rig it shut with a broom handle until the oven guy can come fix it. On top of all of that, I tripped and dropped a bowl of buttercream, denting an expensive Kitchen Aid bowl and splattering Swiss buttercream across the entire kitchen. If you haven’t had to clean buttercream out of every nook and cranny in a commercial kitchen before, well, good for you. It sucks. It took me nearly an hour to make sure I got everything.
I’m behind schedule, which I fucking hate. Trying to quash my sour mood, I step out the side door to take a breath of fresh air. I sigh deeply and scroll through my phone to call in reinforcements for the servers. It takes four phone calls and a small bribe, but I get one of my servers to come in on his day off.
Overwhelmed and overtired, I sit on the step, put my head between my knees, and give in to the stress that’s been strangling me all morning. It’s not a tough girl thing to do, sitting outside and crying like this, but sometimes it’s the only thing that makes me feel better. I don’t know how else to let out the bottled up anxiety and pressure that comes with running a business on my own.
I cry myself out and I’m sure I look awful. I’m not a pretty crier like Lilah. When she cries, she gets these big teardrops that wet her eyelashes and fall neatly down her cheeks. My face goes all red and splotchy the second my tear ducts start up. I’ll be puffy for hours but my crying fit was cathartic. I feel better. Wiping my face clean, I take a deep breath and let it out before hopping up and giving my whole body a shake, rolling my shoulders and letting all the bullshit go.