Page 5 of The Baking Games
“So, what are you up to these days?”
“Well, still preparing desserts for rich celebrities on their fancy yachts.” I leave the details out of what I tell her because I’ve learned that more details equals more questions. And more questions equals more criticism. And more criticism equals more self-loathing. It’s not a fun cycle, and I’d rather avoid it.
“I’ll never understand you, Rhett.”
“What don’t you understand?” I use my thumb and index finger to rub the bridge of my nose. It’s my “thing” that I do when I’m stressed. I’m surprised I even have a bridge anymore.
“You had everything laid out in front of you after prep school. A full ride to multiple universities, a job waiting for you at the hospital. And now you’re traversing the world on someone else’s yacht, making them cupcakes.”
I roll my eyes so hard I think I can see behind me. “I don’t make cupcakes, Mother. I’m a trained pastry chef with skills that are in demand with wealthy people.”
“We’re wealthy people!” She shrieks so loud that I swear I can hear someone’s heart monitor going off in the background.
“I’m not doing this with you again,” I say in a low growl, hoping she gets my message. My mother never gets social cues. Or maybe she just doesn’t care.
“Dear, it’s just that we all love you and want to see you do well. If you’d gone to medical or law school, you could have your own yacht and hire a baker.”
“A pastry chef.”
“Whatever,” she mutters. She says it like even the words “pastry chef” taste terrible on her tongue. Oh, the irony.
“Why can’t you just be happy that I’m happy?” Am I happy, though? I don’t let the question linger long before shaking it off.
“Happiness is overrated.”
If that isn’t the best way to sum up my mother’s life, I don’t know what is. She’s a brilliant cardiologist. I’ll give her that. She helps people daily, and she saves lives. But she does so with a lack of emotion that would make a serial killer proud.
“Look, I’m not going to keep having this circular conversation with you, okay? I love my job, and I have big plans.”
“Oh, really? What kind of big plans can a pastry chef have?”
“Well, for starters, I want to be the pastry chef at a top restaurant. Michelin star rated. I want to be in magazines, maybe on TV. When people think of desserts, I want them to think of me.”
“Oh, good Lord,” she groans. “Honey, there’s no way a person can make a good living as a baker. Maybe just a few people in the whole world. But, if you went through with medical school and became a neurologist, as we talked about…”
“Mother, stop! I don’t want to be a doctor. I’m not going to medical school.”
“Law school then. It’s not as good—don’t tell your father I said that—but it’s a decent career if you’re good at it.”
“I’m not going to law school either. I already went to school.”
“Rhett, you went to night school. That’s not real college, you know. Nobody in our circle has a child that went to night school.”
“That was because I was working at your office to make rent, remember? I could only go to school at night.”
She pauses for a long moment. “I have to go check on your father, but I need to prepare you for something.”
“What?”
“We’ve been reviewing our will.”
Oh, here it comes. The threats. This isn’t new. My mother and father have threatened to remove me from the will if I don’t do what they want several times.
“Here we go again,” I mutter.
“It’s just not fair that your brothers are contributing members of society, and you’re doing… well… whatever it is that you’re doing. You can’t expect to just wait until your father and I kick the bucket to cash in, sweetie.”
She adds “sweetie” to soften the blow. It doesn’t. My mother uses terms like “dear” and “sweetie” and “honey”, but they aren’t terms of endearment.