Page 55 of Riding the Curve

Then I met Carson and was awarded the internship in Sadie’s restaurant.

Over the years, Carson slowly stripped away my confidence layer by layer. Nothing I did was ever enough. He frequently made comments about my body, often making jokes about how being in a kitchen all day had added a little extra around my hips. When work started to get stressful with Sadie, I couldn’t even unwind at home.

The first and final time that I had a panic attack in front of him, he tried to shake me out of it, shouting, “Pull yourself together, it’s not that serious!” Safe to say from then on, if I felt a panic attack coming I hid it. I locked myself in our bathroom or escaped to our closet until it was over.

In the restaurant, things went well at first. Sadie had always been someone I’d looked up to. I pushed myself daily, but just like Carson, I was never enough for her. The pressure only increased when she made me sous chef. She stopped listening to my ideas and started questioning every aspect of what I did. Every time I entered the kitchen I felt like I was walking on eggshells. The perfectionist in me went into overdrive. Perfection soon became my fault, as I found I was making more mistakes and errors, simply because I was trying so hard not to.

Between home and the restaurant, I strived so hard to make things work. To fix my failures, to prove to them both I was worthy. What I hadn’t realized was that, through the entire process, I’d lost myself completely.

I think I’ve been numb for so long, I’ve forgotten what it’s like to feel. Being home, I’m once again surrounded by people who have lifted me up my entire life. People who have seen all of me, the good and the bad.

Here, I feel like I can finally breathe. Like the heavy weight that has been crushing my soul for the past few years has lifted. The fog finally cleared from my mind, my creativity unleashed.

A thrill of excitement swells within me. It sparks while I have my hands in the dough at the bakery. And a flicker burns as I’ve worked these past couple of days on this project for the Lane’s ranch. Sighing contently, I park and stroll into Munroe’s Market.

The doors slide open, and the heavenly view reminds me once again why I love this place. Ed Munroe has always prided himself in supplying local produce and products from the farms around the area. The vibrant display of colors beckons me. Everything feels so fresh, I can’t help raising it to my nose to inhale the scent. The crisp zing of the lemon in my hands flashes a memory through me.

Mom, Mama Lane, and I had gone shopping one day for supplies to make Autumn’s birthday dinner. My fingers rub over the bumpy skin of the lemon in my hands, as I remember how she’d made a big fuss about having to have the best lemons for her meringue pie. She had us lifting each one up for her careful observation.

Placing the lemon in my bag with the others, my heart pinches. I miss those days of cooking with them. As I walk around to collect more of the ingredients I need, I make a mental note to set up a time to cook dinner with Mom next week.

The bags crinkle against the back seat as I slide them in. Once I’m finished, I walk across the street to grab some bread from Harper’s. When I walk in, I’m surprised to see it so empty, but it’s probably just the lull after the morning rush.

Harper’s slouched over the counter, lips pressed into a thin line as she reads a letter. Unease prickles my skin as I approach. “Everything okay?”

Startled, she immediately jumps up and knocks over a little jar of business cards. I begin to pick them up while she shoves the letter and the rest of the stack in front of her into her apron.

“Oh, hey!” she blurts between flustered breaths. “Sorry! It’s been so quiet in here, your voice startled me.”

“No worries, I’m sorry I scared you.”

“Um . . . I’m going to head upstairs to put these in my room. I’ll be back, okay?”

Before I can reply, she’s already halfway up the stairs. That same prickle pokes at my arms. Something is up with Harper.

As I wait, I grab two loaves of sourdough and, of course, a box of cinnamon rolls. The wooden stairs creak loudly as my best friend treks back down them. When she returns, her face is wiped clean of the tormented expression and has been replaced with her normal bright grin.

“Are these for tonight?” she questions as she rings them up.

“Yep. Fingers crossed they like what I came up with.” I cringe.

Harper scoffs, running my card through the register as she talks. “Those slides you showed me last night are brilliant! There is no way they are going to not like it. Not to mention, that menu you are going to make them already has me salivating.”

I slide the bread into my canvas tote. “You could come over too, you know. They wouldn’t mind at all.”

Shaking her head, she leans against the display cabinet. “There’s no way I’m intruding. You two need to have a conversation. A private conversation.” Harper’s eyebrows waggle at my scowl.

“Ugh!” I huff, tossing my head back “How is it that I’m a grown woman yet I’m still incapable of telling Emerson how I feel? We have never been good at discussing feelings.”

“Maybe don’t talk, then? Perhaps you just need to show him?” She hums, and my cheeks go pink.

“Nope,” I say, popping the ‘p’ for emphasis. “That needs to stay off limits for a while.”

“Are you sure about that?”

Am I sure about that? No. Would I rather make out with the man and forget all my worries and troubles till the end of days? Absolutely.

“I’m sure,” I say flatly. Harper snorts as she shakes her head.