The heat from the oven always hit like a physical force—a wall of air so thick it made breathing feel like work. I was three trays deep into my Friday sourdough run when my phone buzzed against the stainless steel counter, the vibration cutting through the symphony of timers and humming mixers that filled The Gilded Crumb every afternoon. I almost ignored it.
Friday afternoons weren’t phone time—they were survival time.
The line was already snaking toward the door, customers clutching numbered tickets like golden passes, and Marcus was calling out orders from the front with the rapid-fire precision of an auctioneer. But when I glanced down and saw my mother’s name glowing on the screen, something in my chest tightened.
I wiped flour-dusted hands on my apron and answered, phone wedged between my shoulder and ear while I adjusted the spacing on a tray of croissants. “Hey, Mom.
Can I call you back in an hour?
We’re slammed.”
She didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Haley wants everything perfect for tonight. Very curated, you know.
Old Boston aesthetic—refined, minimal, the whole thing.”
I pulled open the second oven, and a fresh wave of heat rolled over me, prickling the constellation of burn scars that decorated my forearms like a chaotic star map.
“Sure, I can do dessert. Just tell me what she wants and I’ll—”
“That’s actually what I’m calling about,” my mother interrupted, her voice taking on that careful tone she used when she was about to deliver bad news dressed as reason.
“About you coming tonight.”
My hand froze halfway to the pain au chocolat. Behind me, Marcus shouted, “Chef, we need two more pistachio eclairs!” and I responded automatically—”On it!”—even as ice water seemed to replace the blood in my veins.
“What about me coming?” I asked slowly.
She sighed, the sound carrying years of practiced disappointment. “Haley’s worked so hard on this dinner, sweetheart. Jonathan’s business partners will be there, and she’s going for a very specific atmosphere.
Refined.
Minimal. Very old money Beacon Hill, you understand.”
I stared at the perfectly golden croissants in front of me, each one a small miracle of butter and patience and precise temperature control.
“I bought a dress. It’s simple, black.
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