He leaned back. “Nothing that will affect you.”
“If it affects you, it affects me. After six years of working together—six years of friendship—you don’t know that?”
“I’m sorry about leaving during the photoshoot. It won’t impact my work anymore.”
“Holden…you can talk to me. You can tell me whatever is going on. Maybe I can help.”
“I’m handling it. It’s what I do.” His easy smile was back. “Is the dress still at Keyton’s?”
Way to roadblock me and change the subject, but I let it slide. He ran my life and I still knew so little about his. One more entry on the list of reasons I was a shitty friend, but I swore I’d do better.
“Emily can go get it. Em!” He called out over his shoulder.
“It’s fine. I brought it with me.”
The office door opened and Emily walked out, tablet in hand.
“With you…” The question trailed off and his gaze shot to the bag in my hand, horror etching every perfectly chiseled line. “Is that the Valentino?”
Emily rushed forward like she’d seen blood seeping out of the bag. “What? No!”
Jet lag was more like jet drag, but Keyton was back tomorrow and I wanted to do something for him. It had been under a week since our great escape from my photoshoot from hell.
His trip to Miami overlapped with mine to New York in the imperfectly perfect way that meant we didn’t even get to see each other at the airport.
But the idea hit me when I flipped through my old songwriting notebooks, which I always kept in one of my bags. The ones I’d written after the last show my senior year of high school. On the next page, I saw exactly what I needed. Without a second thought, I was up and out of the room, rushing into the office.
“I need a kitchen.” The door to the suite office slammed behind me.
I jumped. We all jumped. Maybe that was a tad more dramatic than I’d intended.
Emily hopped up, stylus at the ready. “Chef’s Table? For how many? Any particular cuisine you had in mind?”
“Not a restaurant. I just need a kitchen. And these ingredients.” I held up the paper torn from my notebook.
“The chef in the kitchen downstairs is on call and can whip up whatever you want. Or we can have Emily pick something up from a restaurant.”
“I don’t want anyone to make anything for me. I just need a kitchen and the things on this list.” Pointing to the list, I looked back at everyone, who exchanged looks of confusion. The frustration mounted.
“Why?” Holden asked like I’d asked him for a DeLorean and some plutonium.
My teeth clenched. “Because I want to make something.”
“But—”
“I want to make something. Can you please help me do that, or do I need to figure it out myself? Going to the grocery store will be a shitshow, but I’ll do it, if I need to.” With my new disguise technique, I could pull it off. Slip in, rush through the aisles, and back out.
Holden spoke cautiously, enunciating every syllable more than usual like he was testing whether I actually wanted this. “I’ll make it happen.”
Relief that I wouldn’t have to test out my disguise skills and excitement to get started made the next hour drag while Holden arranged everything.
An hour later, he stood beside me in a kitchen in a residence apartment just like Keyton’s, eyeing my apron as I tied the fabric around my waist.
“Are you sure about this?” He tilted back the bag of sugar to examine it like I’d gone mad scientist.
I snatched it away from him and set it down on the counter. “I’m not cooking meth, Holden.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer I send the chef up here? He could help.”
“You mean supervise. I should be offended, you jackass. I lived a life before I was Bay. I cooked and cleaned and even managed to dress myself. I know it’s hard to believe.”
“What’s it been? Six years since you cooked anything for yourself?”
Being swept along in the wave of fame had happened so quickly, I’d forgotten what it was like to do things for myself. I’d sometimes forgotten I was even allowed to do things for myself. When contract obligations were layered on top of exclusivity clauses piled onto travel coordination, me making a rash decision would add heaps of extra work and headaches for everyone, including me.
It was easier to give over the reins to everyone around me, easier to let me set the goal of being the biggest there was and let them lay out the plan to get there. Then I felt like I was just along for the ride, headed toward the destination I’d agreed to, but not thinking about everything it would take to make it happen. I wouldn’t be where I was today if I hadn’t let them handle it, and maybe that was part of the problem. I needed to relearn how to control my own destiny.
“I know my way around the kitchen.” I ran down the list of ingredients I’d scribbled down after asking my mom for the recipe. “When’s the last time you had something home cooked?”
“Home cooking doesn’t always mean good.” He shuddered.
“You haven’t had my hot chocolate and cinnamon rolls.” After Keyton had shown up the way he had, I wanted to do something for him. I needed to, to remind him that this wasn’t always who I’d be.
“Okay. The trainer will be here in seven hours. Are you sure you want to start this so late?”
The dough could rise and proof in a couple hours. I wouldn’t be getting much sleep tonight, but it would be worth it. “I’ve got it handled."
"Let us know if you need anything.”
“I won’t. I’ve made these tons of times. It’s been a few years, but I can do things for myself.” Making these for Keyton was a small flex of the independence muscles I’d let atrophy.
All the kitchen tools were out and cleaned. Measuring all the ingredients, I got to work. My mom and dad had loved baking together. They’d both end up covered in flour or powdered sugar and I’d pretend not to notice the white hand prints on my mom’s butt. Those quiet domestic moments were ones I’d taken for granted. Despite how much my dad loved music, we made him happiest.
How would he feel knowing I’d accomplished all he’d ever dreamed of in a music career, but had traded my love to get there?
During the first proofing of the dough, my eyelids drooped. The adrenaline rush of baking slowly faded. I set a timer on my phone, grabbed a few kitchen towels, and turned them into a makeshift pillow to crash for a little bit. The scratchy linen wasn’t enough to stop my eyes from closing.
Keyton would love these. Watching him devour them in my kitchen back in Greenwood, I’d loved drizzling even more icing onto them for him. I remembered sending him home with a container full of them.
He could take them the next time he left town. Maybe I could make some for him to keep in the freezer.
I zonked out to dreams of him licking icing off my fingers while I fed him cinnamon rolls until my timer beeped. Bumping my head on the cabinets above me hadn’t been in the plans, but I soldiered on with the top of my head throbbing.
When he got back into town tomorrow and came to visit me, we’d have morning cinnamon rolls and hot chocolate to celebrate making it through another week apart.