Page 284 of A Taste of Vanilla

He retreats. “Elder abuse!”

“We’re the same age!”

“I have an old soul and terrible knees.”

The night keeps moving.

Online conversation grows. Not perfectly. There are definitely trolls. Men named Brad with flag avatars and opinions about women’s accountability. Women who think a broken engagement requires equal blame. Someone comments that I’m weaponizing pastries, which Dev immediately wants on a shirt.

At seven, the late-night menu launches at Saints & Sinners, and customers flock over there.

“Oliver! We need six more No Sports, Just Revenue!” a Viper calls from the crowd.

He groans. “Capitalism has defeated me.”

But he creates a fourth cocktail called The Reluctant Home Run.

“It’s not a baseball bar,” he says while handing Marley the drink for photos.

“Seems like one.”

“I’m under duress.”

“You invented all of these yourself.”

“Internal duress.”

At eight thirty, Barrett Whitaker posts a statement.

Marley sees it first and looks at me. “Do you want to know?”

My stomach turns. Warren is beside me, handing out cookies.

“Yeah, I do.”

Marley hands me the phone.

The statement is elegant, of course. Restrained and polished. Disappointed.

He says he has always supported Baltimore’s culinary scene. He says he does not allow personal matters to influence professional critique. He says any suggestion otherwise is regrettable. He says Bitter Bloom’s owner has the right to respond emotionally to criticism, but critics must be free to speak honestly.

Emotionally.

My hand steadies.

A month ago, this would have gutted me. Maybe even yesterday.

But now, in a bakery full of people eating my food, Barrett looks smaller.

I hand the phone back to her. “Post nothing yet.”

She blinks. “What?”

“Not yet.”

Oliver appears with an empty glass, brows lifted.

Warren looks at me.