Tristan hated the idea of dealing with people, but Henry neededsomeoneto pull him out of there. There was no socially appropriate response left to be made to her, so Tristan moved up, smiling morosely at Nina, and led Henry away. “Don’t give the judges ideas. Think that might be a smart decision?”
“I wassureI was going home on that. They thought my cookies were boring. Why did I stick to stuff that was so simple?”
“No one said boring; they said safe.”
“And you know it’s exactly the same thing.”
“What if it is? Safe and boring executed well is better than anything executed poorly.” Which was a crock Tristan knew neither of them bought.
“I didn’t come here to be safe. I came here to prove that I was worth paying attention to. I didn’t come here to be second to last.”
“You don’t know where you were, other than not first and not last.” Tristan spotted the plate of oatmeal thumbprints being carried past and snatched one. He broke it in half and offered part to Henry. “Try it. This is what she made this last round.”
Henry rolled his eyes, but he took the lumpy little cookie and bit into it. He chewed. And chewed. And chewed. And chewed. Then he finally swallowed. “Okay, mine are better than that, but it’s not a high bar.”
Good to know.Tristan led him around to the café table, which was slowly being filled with cookies, and dropped his half back on the plate. “You’re right, it’s not. But you don’t have to be perfect at everything. No one can be. Not any of the judges, damn sure not any of the contestants. Not even Ms. New York’s Treasure Willa.” Who was currently shaking hands with the judges. Again.
Henry sighed. “There’s a reason I don’t make a lot of cookies, but I make these ones all the time.”
“Well, you won’t have to make them again while you’re here if you don’t want to.” There weren’t any other cookies on the list they’d been given. “And remember this pep talk so you can give it to me when I fail miserably at bread in four days.” That was the one round Tristan wasn’t looking forward to. He was a pastry chef, and bread was distinctlynotdessert. “You owe me one for doing this.”
Henry shook his head. “You’ll be fine.”
“You will be too.”
Henry finally cracked out a chuckle. “Those oatmeal cookies were pretty underwhelming.”
“Ragging on other bakers. That’s the Henry I remember.”
“You make it sound so bad. I’m delightfully catty.” A bit of proper Henry crept back into his face. “That’s what I tell myself, anyway.”
Itshouldn’thave mattered to Tristan at all if Henry was broken or worried or delightfully catty or just an asshole. And yet it did. In the pits of his stomach, in a place he normally choked off from everything else, there was turmoil. He... Damn it, Tristan liked getting that glimpse of authenticity, that humanity.
He wanted to see more of it, peel back further layers. Tristan couldidentifywith the anxiety, but what else lurked underneath the surface?
“Oh God.” Henry pulled up close, whispering. “Finn’s macaroons. How do you fuck up macaroons?”
Tristan stifled a laugh and went along with Henry to the plate of coconut cookies.Henry fucking Isaacson.
Henry stood under the showerhead. He’d been there for at least twenty minutes, because hotel hot water heaters were a godsend and he intended to take full advantage of this one as long as was possible. As long as he wasallowedto stay.
I seriously could have gone home.He turned around so the water cascaded down his back. Tristan had made him feellessawful, but there was no denying the truth. He had to kill it in all the other rounds if he was going to stay. This cookie debacle felt like a free wake-up call from the universe:Get your shit together, because I’m not going easy on you anymore. Nut up, buttercup.
Apparently the universe is a real asshole too.Or it just hurt a hell of a lot more when you fell from a pedestal you’d put yourself on. Cockiness, confidence, all that shit? It usually kept Henry happy and functional in the face of adversity, even if it did make a lot of people think he was arrogant. But when a blowdidland, like the fuck up with those cookies? It was all the worse for having held himself so high.
Henry cranked the water temperature up another notch. Soon, steam billowed over the curtain. He breathed in all that humidity and warmth, rubbed up and down his arms. He feltokay. That was something he could settle for, in the given situation. Okay, and hopefully with improvement in his future over the next few days’ baking.
Bread was next. Henry could do bread. There were probably a lot of pastry chefs in that kitchen who didn’t really handle “traditional” baking in their day jobs, but while it wasn’t Henry’s bread-and-butter, to use a far-too-apt pun, focaccia and rolls and filled loaves weren’t uncommon sights in his life. They just made their appearance on his table at home instead of in the shop window. He could rebound on bread.
Then why doesn’t my stomach believe me?It was still protesting—jumping and leaping around, trying to make him toss his cookies in quite the literal sense. His cookies, Nina’s cookies, Tristan’s cookies, and even Willa’s prize-winning spritz. Which had been pale golden, buttery, and flecked with delicate, fragrant pineapple mint. Who the hell even thought to pick pineapple mint of all the available options? Not him.But then, I didn’t win, did I?
As some small consolation, his bedtime cookies had been among the most widely smuggled offerings. They were good enough for the public... but not for Dexter, Rita, and Eli.
Henry turned the shower off and stepped out. He dried himself quickly and unthoroughly, then walked into the hotel room proper and the quiet that came with it. Always so quiet. He still hated that. There was no company save for Lucy, Ethel, Ricky, and Fred, since the only channel worth watching at the Hotel Majestic showed black-and-white reruns. And the programming director likedI Love Lucyeven more than Henry.
He sat on the edge of the bed and grabbed his phone. Carrie had tagged him in a picture. She was out clubbing and had ordered a grasshopper. Not her drink of choice, but when Henry got enough liquor in his system, he inevitably wanted one.
Seeing his friend deepened the ache for company. And he’d have to settle for leaving a comment on the picture.Don’t try to drink like me, hon. You’ll get alcohol poisoning.Then he pulled up her last text message and shot back another missive.Miss you. Almost got kicked off today.
