Page 2 of Season's Schemings
“Just let me get—”
“I meanthisisn’t working.” He gestures from himself, to me. “Me and you.”
I sigh. Adam is highly competitive. I want to win this thing, too; it’s a trait we share. But if we want to have a shot at claiming that W, we need to put a pin in this convo. Stat.
And if I know Adam at all, I know that the only way to end a squabble is to roll over and let him believe he’s right. So instead of telling him to pipe the hell down and focus on getting his Santa-red right, I smile. “I’m not as skilled a baker as you, but if I’m being a crappy teammate, you can take the lead and assign me grunt work—”
“Our relationship!” He half yells, and for the first time, I notice the thin sheen of stress sweat dotting his forehead. He only sweats like that when he has something on his mind that he doesn’t want to say, and I know that because… dammit, I know everything about this man after being with him for the past eleven years.
“What?” I blink at him. Camera one is so up in my face, I suddenly feel like a goldfish in a very, very claustrophobic bowl.
He sighs. “I don’t want to do this with you anymore, Madelyn. Us. Our relationship.”
I blink again, not comprehending.
“It’s over,” he adds for good measure, really twisting the pastry knife.
“B-b-but… the ring,” I stutter, my vision blurring at the edges as hot tears prick the corners of my eyes.
Now, it’s Adam’s turn to look confused. “What ring?”
“I found it in your drawer,” I mumble, blinking up at a shiny decorative Christmas bauble suspended above me.
“Oh. That’s not for you.”
It’s then that I notice that the studio is quiet. Too quiet. The only thing punctuating the silence is the tinny blast of that “Deck the Halls” song coming from the speakers. Camera four is now also focused on Adam and me. The grannies to our left have stopped adding raisins to their oatmeal dough. The steampunk bakers to our right have paused piping their neon-pink-and-black-skull sugar cookie stockings. Gina DeLaurier, beloved host ofEasy Peasy Lemon Squeezy Meals For One—and today’s guest judge—stands up, concern worrying her pretty features.
But I can’t focus on any of that. Because Adam’s words are sinking in like acid on my skin.
“Wait… you’re breaking up with me… so you can propose to someone else??” My voice has taken on the harpy, almost hysterical quality of a too-tight violin string.
Adam swallows, his unfocused eyes darting back and forth like a metronome. He, at least, has the decency to look bashful. “I’ve fallen in love with Elizabeth.”
“Elizabeth,” I repeat dumbly.
Adam frowns. “You know…myElizabeth? I didn’t mean for this to happen, but…”
I tune Adam out as a rush of blood floods my eardrums, roaring like the ocean in indignance.
HisElizabeth. Elizabeth Carberry. Business advisor extraordinaire. Really, really pretty.
And apparent go-to girl for an affair.
Ha.
It’s the third round of the competition. We were onlyone step awayfrom making the finals. And my cookies in the form of jolly little Santa Clauses sipping hot chocolate were going to knock it out of the park today.
But now, Adam has Elizabeth, and Elizabeth is going to have a ring, and all I have is some red frosting that is totally the wrong color because Adam mixed it wrong, for frick’s sake.
“So, I think you’ll understand that this is for the best for everyone,” Adam concludes blinkily as his voice comes back into focus.
He puts his hands on the counter and starts to pat around blindly.
And so, I do the only thing that a reasonable, sane, mature, twenty-five year old woman who’s just been dumped on national television would do:
I reach up, grab the back of his head… and dunk his stupid blind-bat face in the vat of wrong-color-red frosting.
Fa la la la la la la la la.