“My favorite item of the entire week was definitely the French silk parfait from Bailey and Riggs,” adds another third judge.
Bailey sucks in a breath and flicks her eyes to me. Hope.
“But unfortunately, only one team can be the winner and take home the ten-thousand-dollar grand prize.”
“Since all the desserts presented to us were wonderful, we couldn’t decide based on that alone.”
She’s bouncing now, and my stomach is in my throat.
“So, it came down to the theme.”
I squeeze her hand again.
“Parker. Su. Your decision to create traditional Valentine’s Day desserts was a great one.”
“All three of your desserts complemented each other brilliantly.”
She squeezes my hand back, and I can tell she’s trying desperately not to shake.
“But Bailey and Riggs...”
Her back shoots ramrod straight, and she’s squeezing my hand so hard I can’t feel my fingers.
“Your take on the Chicago is for Lovers theme was perfect.”
I wrap my arm around her shoulder and pull her in tight. I don’t think she’s breathing. I certainly am not.
“Your desserts were the embodiment of Chicago.”
“Congratulations, Bailey and Riggs, you’ve won the Holiday Bake Off.”
She squeals and launches herself into my arms, and we’re both laughing as I spin her around. When I set her back on her feet, she faces the judges with tears rolling down her cheeks.
“Thank you so, so much for this opportunity,” she says. “Thank you so much.”
They hand us one of those giant television checks and have us pose for pictures. The judges all shake our hands and tell us what a great job we did. We’re interviewed again. And then, finally, we’re allowed to leave.
“We have to tell your mom,” Bailey says as soon as we’re in the car. Technically we’re not supposed to tell anyone yet, but fuck that, we have to tell my mom.
I text Ms. Beth and she tells me my mom is sleeping, but she will call me the minute she wakes up. No matter the time, I tell her. I make her promise.
“What should we do in the meantime?” I ask Bailey.
“I don’t know. I’m so buzzed. I just want to celebrate.”
“Want to go to the Night Bean?” The smile on her face tells me everything I need to know, so I ask the driver to take us to Millennium Park.
When we get there, we take about one hundred photos in front of the Bean. Some with ridiculous faces in the distorted reflective surface of the sculpture, some of us each posed in front of it, some selfies with our arms outstretched, and a few together that we got some random people to take for us. In every picture, the buildings are lit up against the night sky, the Christmas lights twinkling like fake stars on a movie set. In every picture, Bailey’s smile shines the brightest. Her happiness a beacon for my own. Her luminescent eyes my Polaris, guiding me back to myself.
“Regarde-toi, tu es magnifique,” I say earnestly, and she smiles, bemused.
“What did you say?” she asks, and I shrug in response. She narrows her eyes at me playfully. “Teach me something. Teach me something in French.”
“Mon aéroglisseur est plein d'anguilles,” I say, trying to hold back a laugh.
“Moan ay oh glee surly planohghee,” she says.
Her accent is absolutely terrible. She literally said nothing.
“Great job,” I say sarcastically, and she rolls her eyes.
“Ass. What did I say?”
“You said nothing.” She swats at me.
“Fine, what did you say?”
“My hovercraft is full of eels.”
She barks a laugh, and then another, until we’re both full-fledged cracking up and I’m pretty sure these tourists think we’re drunk off our asses.
“You’re crazy,” she says after catching her breath.
I just nod. “Pour toi.”
In this moment, bundled in our winter clothes, laughing with tourists and sipping hot chocolate, I feel like me. For the first time in years, I know who I am and what I want.
And what I want is her.
This fierce, intelligent, wicked, infuriating woman who challenges me and makes me laugh and lights me up on the inside. Who protects her heart with a dry sense of humor and emotional Kevlar because it is, by far, her most valuable asset. Who is beautiful in her vulnerability and her strength.
I want this woman. Bailey Elizabeth Barnes. My Sundance.
And I’m going to make her mine.