Page 72 of The Loophole
I crossed my arms over my chest. “You need to let this go.”
“But we had an agreement?—”
“You’re right, we did. We even put it in writing. It said I wouldn’t get paid if we failed to fool your grandfather. We failed, Bryson.”
“But that wasn’t your fault. You did everything I asked of you.”
“There’s no way I’d ever accept that huge amount.”
“How about if we go back to the original amount instead of doubling it? Then will you take it?”
I took a step back as tears welled in my eyes. “No! A hundred grand for a month is absurd!”
He seemed surprised. “Why are you getting upset?”
I turned my back to him and wiped away the tears as I admitted, “I don’t know.”
Bryson’s voice was as gentle as always. “I really want you to have that money, Embry.”
I turned to face him and asked, “Why is this so important to you?”
He seemed confused, because to him this didn’t need an explanation. “Because that money can help you. When we started this, you told me how much you wanted to launch a cake business. If it’s not what you want anymore, that’s fine, too. Use it for something else, or stick it in savings.”
“Please let it go, Bryson. I’m never going to agree to take that money, and nothing you say will convince me.”
His shoulders slumped, and he sighed and muttered, “Alright.”
I’d hurt his feelings, which was the last thing I wanted. I knew this was meant to be an act of kindness, and I wished I could explain why it bothered me so much. It was more than feeling like I hadn’t earned it and didn’t deserve it—though that was definitely a big part of it. But it also hit on something deeper, something I couldn’t put words to, because I hadn’t figured it out for myself.
I hurried around the kitchen island and grabbed him in a hug as I whispered, “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize,” he said. “I shouldn’t have pushed.”
The next morning, we woke up to gray skies and a lot of rain. Even so, Bryson was out of the house before nine again, with another long list of properties to see with the real estate agent.
I was still in a funk, so I hid in bed for a while before finally making myself get up and face the day. The first thing I had to do was make some decisions about my website. The designer had sent me three very different mockups, and I had no idea which one I should choose.
After spending a couple of hours on the internet looking at the websites of similar businesses, I still didn’t have an answer. I emailed the designer and told her I’d get back to her next week. Not that I thought I’d figure it out by then, but at least I didn’t have to worry about it right this minute.
The other item on my to-do list was to bake a birthday cake for my neighbors across the street, which they were expecting the next day. I took a shower and got dressed, and then I found an umbrella and walked to the nearest market for some ingredients.
Dusty greeted me excitedly when I got home, and I took some time to pet him and let him out before turning my attention to the birthday cake. It was for a little girl who was turning seven. Her moms had requested pastel colors and a donut theme, because that was her favorite treat. I thought they should have just bought some donuts and stuck candles in them, but this was what they wanted, and they were paying me to make it.
I’d drawn some different ideas for the cake ahead of time, and I put my open sketchbook on the kitchen counter and got to work. The cake itself was the easy part. I got it in the oven and turned my attention to the donuts.
Even though I’d never made them before, I’d seen it done plenty of times on cooking shows, so I thought I knew what I was doing. The plan was to make them as small as possible, frost and decorate them, and then use them as a border around both tiers of the cake.
I rolled out the dough, but it was too soft and sticky, and the circles I cut weren’t holding their shape. I ended up remixing it and trying again, forgetting about everything else, including the cake in the oven and the big pot of oil I’d put on the stove to heat up.
A few minutes later, everything went horribly wrong.
The cakes began to burn, which set off the smoke alarm. Dusty leapt up and started barking at the loud noise, and I grabbed a dish towel and used it to pull the scorched cakes from the oven. I ended up burning one of my hands on a hot cake pan, so I hurried to the sink and held my hand under cold water, coughing as the kitchen filled with smoke.
Most of that smoke wasn’t from the cakes. I didn’t realize that until the oil on the stove burst into flames. I quickly turned off the heat and tried to move the pot off the burner, but I yelped in pain as burning oil sloshed onto my hand. Some also spilled onto the counter, igniting my sketchbook and sending flames shooting upwards, toward the cabinets.
I cried out in terror, flashing back to when I was three and got burned by that campfire. My eyes stung, and I couldn’t stop coughing. I knew I should get out of there, but if I didn’t do something the whole house would burn down.
I had to think. I had to fix this. What did you do to put out a grease fire? It wasn’t water, that much I knew.