I Hate, I Bake, and I Don’t Date! by Alina Jacobs

17

Tess

While I had complained about having to move, I was actually pretty glad. The apartment had started to grow red-orange mold on the walls along with the forest of mushrooms in the carpet. No way was I leaving all my baking supplies there.

“Why did you bring flour?” Beck asked, horrified, as I dumped my bags in the kitchen of the swanky condo and began to unpack. “And who in their right mind needs all these sprinkles?”

“We might have a tea party,” I said, grabbing the case of sprinkles from him.

“A tea party!” Annie said happily as I unboxed one of my tiered afternoon-tea stands.

“We will have a very elegant tea,” I promised, setting the brass and ceramic stand on the counter.

Beck’s phone rang, and he disappeared into the huge condo to take the call. I continued to dig through my bags. In one large bag was my most prized possession, even more beloved than the Hello Kitty three-dimensional ice cream cake pan that I had won in a raffle from a Japanese company.

It was a medium-sized painting in a gaudy gold plastic frame. It had been my mother’s. It was the only actual item she had left in her will to me.

My stepsister had always said it was ugly, and maybe it was, but I loved it. It was a painting of New York. There was a girl in the corner looking out the window at the street scene. The colors, while vibrant, were a bit smudged, as if you were looking out through antique glass covered in rain.

I stared at it lovingly then grabbed the hammer and nail I had brought.

“Is Beck going to let you hang that in here?” Enola asked in concern, following me into the living room.

“I always hang it up wherever I live. It’s tradition. This painting is my good luck charm.” I picked a spot on a prominent wall and pounded the nail in then hung the painting on it.

“It’s a little crooked,” Enola said.

I tried to adjust the painting, but it went wonky in the other direction. “You know what? Sometimes that’s just life.”

“Ma’am?” a man called. “Where do you want this bed, ma’am?” One of the movers and his coworker hauled a large headboard into the living room.

“Uh…” I looked around. I didn’t know how Beck wanted the furniture set up. I didn’t even know where he was. The mover made an impatient noise.

“I guess the master bedroom?”

“Which is?”

I needed some cake; it was too early. I picked a hall at random, and the movers followed me down. On the right-hand side was a large bedroom that seemed like the master suite.

They need to give you a map.

“All that master-suite furniture can go here. For the rest, just pick a bedroom.”

I went back into the living space. There were few things I loved more than luxury real estate. The whole place had gleaming hardwood floors. The windows let in more natural daylight than I had seen in a year at my old apartment. The kitchen was so big I could hold a dance party in it. I was in heaven.

“Girls,” I said as the movers streamed in with furniture, “we need to decorate!” The walls were shades of white and gray, but I liked color. “We should paint this whole room yellow.”

“No, pink!” Annie suggested, eyes sparkling.

“We do need some pink in here,” I declared as we trooped through the massive condo.

“Let’s paint the hallway orange!” Enola exclaimed.

I wondered if Beck was going to go for that. He was already on edge lately—we didn’t need him wound any tighter.

“Why don’t we start with our bedrooms then branch out from there?” I suggested, leading them back to the bedrooms.

“These are huge!” Enola exclaimed, eyes bugging.

“And you have your own bathroom,” I said, opening the door to the en suite bathroom. “You girls are going to be living large.”

“So are you! You have to take the room next to mine,” Annie insisted, tugging me down the hall.

“Ma’am?” the mover said, knocking on the door. “All the furniture is in. Can you sign please?”

I looked around. In the living room was a single couch and a table, one of the bedrooms had a nightstand but no bed, and the master suite only had a dresser and a chair.

“Where is the rest of it?”

“We were instructed not to take the furniture that had water damage,” the mover explained.

“Then I guess we’re going to be doing some shopping,” I said, signing my name with a flourish. “Poor us!”

I went into my room, where the girls were sorting through my things.

“You have such cool stuff,” Enola said, holding up my Lisa Frank pencil case.

“All I wanted in school was Lisa Frank stuff like the cool girls,” I said wistfully. “My mom would never buy it for me so now that I’m an adult, I will relive my childhood the way I want and spend money on these things instead of paying my credit card bill.”

I pulled up my dream bedroom Pinterest page on my phone. It screamed early-2000s thirteen-year-old girl with fairy lights, celebrity posters, quirky knickknacks, and breezy white curtains.

“I’m going to make us some snacks, then we’re going to live out our dreams!”

I changed into a pair of shorts and a tank top then padded into the kitchen.

“For all of Beck’s complaints about my cooking supplies, it’s a good thing I emptied out my fridge. Otherwise we’d starve,” I told Enola and Annie.

I pulled out a loaf of bread, butter, and American cheese.

“Nothing like a grilled cheese,” I said, smearing butter on the bread. “Can one of you look in the bags for the panini maker?”

They rummaged in the bags piled in the kitchen.

“I don’t see one, but I did find an iron!” Enola said.

“Good enough,” I said, taking it from her and plugging it in.

“In college, I was the master of cooking with random appliances,” I told them, ripping off two pieces of aluminum foil. “I made caramel using a metal bowl and the heat from my desk lamp. And I was known for my microwave chocolate chip pancakes.” I picked up the iron and flicked a little water on it. It sizzled.

“Food is about to be ready! See if you can find some plates.” I pressed the iron down on the foil-wrapped sandwich. The smell of toasted, buttery bread wafted through the kitchen. My mouth watered. Nothing like a grilled cheese!

“Are you trying to burn the house down?” Beck demanded, rushing into the kitchen.

“I’m being a responsible fake girlfriend and cooking lunch,” I informed him, flipping over the foil-wrapped grilled cheese.

“With an iron? What kind of lunacy is this?” He looked around at the bags and the half-empty living room. “Where is all the furniture?”

“The movers said they didn’t take the wet furniture.”

“Only a bed and a TV were ruined,” he said flatly. “Where is the rest of it?”

“Uh…”

“Are they coming back?” he prompted.

I made a face. “I might have already signed off that they were done.”

Beck’s shoulders tensed.

I picked up the iron and unwrapped the grilled cheese.

“Behold!” I raised the iron. “The queen of the kitchen!”

Beck’s eyes widened slightly as he took me in.

“You can have one too,” I said, blowing him a kiss, “even though you were hating on my iron cooking method.”

Beck swallowed. “Where are the rest of your clothes?”

Now I was pissed. “You went off to talk on the phone!” I said, angrily grabbing another sandwich. “You didn’t give me any direction, pooh-poohed my iron, and now you’re in here insulting my outfit?”

Beck made a strangled noise. “I would hardly call it an outfit—you’re barely wearing anything at all. You need to change. Now.” He turned on his heel and walked to the front door.

“Your brother is an awful person,” I told the girls as I set down the iron. “I’ll be right back. I have to go change into a padded bodysuit for Mr. Uptight Billionaire,” I said loudly, hoping he heard me.

I snapped a picture of myself and sent it to my friends.

Tess:Apparently not only did my boss demand that I move into his house, but now he’s dictating what I wear!

Tess:There has to be some law against that right?

Holly:Uhhh…

Tess:I know. It’s crazy, right?

Maeve:…Tess, you know you are our favorite person, and this is said with love, but I can kind of see why Beck wanted you to change.

Holly:I’m surprised he didn’t come in his pants right then and there.

Tess:This is a perfectly fine outfit. It’s just shorts and a tank top!

Maeve:You… you aren’t wearing a bra.

Tess:It has a built-in bra. I wear this tank top for baking all the time. It’s my baking tank top.

Maeve:Tess, I never told you this because I know life is hard right now, but you might have gained a little bit of weight from all the stress eating. Just a little!

Holly:And it’s all in your boobs, girl! That built-in tank top bra is not cutting it.

Tess:It’s completely fine. I feel very well supported.

Then I looked at the photo of myself, like, really looked.

I wrinkled my nose.

Lord.

Tess:Okay on second glance, I may have been hitting the Friday-night desserts a bit hard lately.