Dare You to Hate Me
“Don’t you dare say it, missy.” She eyes me in warning, making me bite down on my bottom lip to suppress the amused laugh that wants to come out. “I swear if you say it even once, it’s like they show up in herds. That damn drink is like the Bloody Mary to mirrors.”
In this moment, I remember why I’m always jealous over not being related to Bets. Elena doesn’t appreciate her sassy-mouthed sixty-something-year-old grandmother. I’d met my grandmother Gertie a handful of times when I was younger. She’s more subdued than Bets, their personalities polar opposite from one another. I have nothing against the woman personally, but if I got to choose I’d prefer Bea taking the grandmotherly role because of everything she’s done for me in the short time I’ve been in Lindon.
It’s why I considered going to her place, somewhere I’ve only been once or twice since moving here, after storming out of Aiden’s house. Instead, I sucked it up and walked home. I didn’t want to be a bother to her, even if I knew she’d welcome me with open arms. Thankfully, the party was quieter and whoever was in my room didn’t trash it or take anything. Not that I have anything of value most people would want. To be safe, I changed the sheets knowing anything could have happened after I escaped through the window, double checked the door was locked, and fell asleep for a few measly hours.
I let Bets guide me through the recipe like she’s done with her other favorite treats. It’s not that complicated on paper, but I’ve always been more of a wing it-type of girl, which explains why most of my own attempts at baking usually fail. Only one time had I messed up so bad the smoke detectors at the house went off, and the girls who were home at the time freaked out and called the fire department before I could tell them it was just smoke from a new kind of cookie that I’ll never try again.
I finish closing after a few batches of the bars are made, count the register, and double check that the front door is locked with the CLOSED sign showing and then head into the back again. “Can I ask you something?”
Bets is drying the last piece of bakeware when she turns to me. “Anything.”
“Why don’t you teach Elena more? I think she wants to learn.”
A small smile graces her lips, making the corners of her eyes crinkle more than they already do. “She’s eager to learn because of you, dear. My little Lena looks up to you.”
All I manage to do is gape at her.
She nods once. “I’d love for my granddaughter to be more invested in the bakery, but I know it’s not her main interest. Not like yours. Your eyes light up every time I ask if you want to help, and I see the way you study things even when I’m not looking. You’re like me. Happy creating in the kitchen, experimenting, being in control of things. Lena is young. Perhaps one day she’ll decide she wants to learn, but right now, she only wants that because she’s copying her idol.”
“I’m the last person she should be idolizing,” I admit sheepishly. There isn’t anyone here who knows my past. My resume didn’t require it. I was honest about my experience in retail work—I worked at a few different seedy gas stations for a hot minute—but had to talk my way into convincing the woman standing before me that I had the type of smile that could make even a rattlesnake smile.
Her hand reaches out and pats my forearm lightly. “I don’t believe that for a second. Whatever makes you think so is all in your head.”
My fingers go to the spot on my lower arm that’s covered by a sleeve. I rub my scar, feeling it heavy under my touch. “I’m sure. Next you’re going to tell me you hired me because of my charming wit and glowing personality.”
Amusement flickers in her eyes. “Your wit and personality certainly make this place livelier, that’s for sure.”
I can’t help but grin at her reply. “Is that why my paychecks are always more than they should be? You’re paying me for the entertainment, too?”
She doesn’t acknowledge my comment, but I’m not surprised. Bets never admits to paying me over my hours. She tosses the wet towel into the little hamper in the corner that she takes home every night to clean. “Elena is awful at listening. Trying to get her to follow directions will kill me long before my age does, so I don’t bother putting more effort in than I do. She nearly burnt my bread the other day because she was on that dang phone of hers. Probably looking up that Face chat app or football website.”
Her confusion over Snapchat and Facebook make me smile, but that quickly fades when I realize she’s not joking about what she said. “You’re being serious about Lena looking up to me, aren’t you?”
She knows what I mean. “As a heart attack. You’re far too talented and good-hearted to think so poorly of yourself, Ivy.”
I snort. “Talented?”
“There you go again.” Her hands go to her hips as she tsks. “I see the way you take on a project here. It’s not just what you do in the kitchen, it’s how you handle the business. You enjoy yourself. You’re at peace. I hear more about a recipe you tried at home than how school’s going or anything else in your life. That’s quite telling.”
I flush from the acknowledgment. “I’ve always enjoyed baking,” I admit. My mother never had time to teach me, but Mrs. Griffith would give both Aiden and I lessons. Cookies, pies, and a few of her favorite Italian dishes to cook that weren’t too complicated.
Plus, there’s nothing to say about school. I get a mixture of C’s and B’s because I struggle with listening to lectures. My mind wanders if I’m not interested, and I find myself thinking about anything other than the material we’ll be tested on.
Bets smiles and bats me away. “Maybe you should focus on culinary instead of taking all those silly classes the school requires you to. Now go home. It’s past your shift. And you’re sure you’ll be okay closing again on Friday?”
For the game. I’ve told her at least twice already that I was more than capable of running the place on my own. It worked last time Lindon had a home game, and it’ll work this week. “Yes. Most of the town will be at the game supporting the Dragons anyway, so it’ll be easy to handle.”
I can tell she wants to push the issue, but she’s learned it’s pointless with me. I could use the money, and so could she. Especially since she’s saving for a new high-tech oven that’ll offer more space for baking. “Fine, but one day you’ll tell me who it is you’re so adamantly trying to avoid by not attending. Don’t think I haven’t seen the way your eyes go to the TV when it’s playing something on the t
eam here. I’m old but I’m not stupid.”
Halfway home after bidding her goodbye in the brisk breeze, my phone buzzes against my butt cheek, and I pull it out of my pocket to figure out who’s bugging me so late when rarely anybody does these days.
Unknown: Hey
I falter on the sidewalk only for a moment at the number. Another text comes through.
Unknown: It’s me