Nineteen
JACK
Love is supposed to solve all our problems, but what if it just creates them?
—SOLO FEBRUARY CHALLENGE
“Why so stiff, Jack?” Mal whispers in my ear as I struggle with the absolute nightmare unfolding before my very eyes.
I can’t believe Mal showed up.
But, frankly, I’m more surprised Sora did.
I just … didn’t think she would. I’m stunned. Mal next to me. Sora a few feet away. Sure, I got Sora’s message about wanting to come tonight, but I’ll be honest, I didn’t get my hopes up. How many times can a guy be relegated to second place before he gets the message? I really thought we were Big-L Love, even though she was telling me and the whole world that she doesn’t even believe in Big-L Love.
I’m just this big pathetic puppy trying to make women love me who can’t love at all.
But now that I see her standing there, I see she does believe in Big-L Love. And Grand Romantic Gestures, or she wouldn’t be here.
But now I’m going to lose her.
Because of Mal.
And my own doubt.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I hiss to Mal, even though I know why. She’s been threatening to come for weeks. I didn’t take her seriously, but I should have.
“Presenting an award,” she says, feigning innocence. “I know someone who knows someone who runs the Golden Chefs. Why? Is this seat taken? Or can’t I sit here?”
“No, you can’t.” But it’s all too late, Sora has seen her. And she’s clinging to me like a dryer sheet. I watch the blood draining from Sora’s face.
“Jack-a-boo,” she purrs. “The seat was empty. I just want to keep it warm.”
I shrug her off, shooting to my feet, but the damage is done. It’s too late. Sora’s turned on her heel, already pushing by a waiter, and headed back to the elevators.
“Sora!” I cry, and a few patrons turn and stare at me as I chase after Sora. “Sora, wait.”
Sora dashes past the coat check, nearly knocking over the attendant. I catch her right before the elevators.
“Sora, wait.”
She whirls. “You could have told me that Mal was your plus-one. That she’s the reason you wanted to wait until March. You could have just told me.”
“She’s not. I promise. There’s nothing going on between us.”
“So you said.” Sora’s voice drips with doubt. And I don’t blame her.
“I know how this looks, but you have to believe me, I did not invite her here.”
“What’s she doing here, then?” Sora puts a hand on her hip.
“She’s a presenter. She has connections.” It sounds like a weak excuse. I dig up more truth. “She’s been threatening to be my plus-one for weeks. I told her no, but she doesn’t take no for an answer.”
Sora stares at me. “Why didn’t you just tell me that? Why keep it a secret?”
Because then I’d have to admit that Mal and I slept together a week before I bumped into Sora at my free samples table. That the reason why Mal thinks she can be my plus-one at all is because I made a terrible mistake. But I don’t want to tell Sora that. It would just confirm her fears that I’m not over Mal.
“Why didn’t you tell me that you were going to be on that morning show? That you’d recommitted to Solo February?” Later, watching her segment online bashing love and all men, calling both a waste of time, hurt more than I’d like to admit.
We both stare at each other, realizing the truth: neither one of us has been totally honest with the other. It shakes the very foundation of everything between us.
“Don’t ‘what about’ me,” Sora warns. “This is different.”
“Sora, please, I know men have lied to you in the past. But I am not lying. Mal and I are not dating.”
“And now, to announce the award for Best Pastry Chef, I give you … the heiress to the Starr Hotels, Mal Starr,” a voice across the speakers announces.
“This is my category,” I admit.
Sora cringes. “Mal’s giving out your award? That’s what she’s presenting?”
“I didn’t know she was.” But I get how ridiculous I sound. Even to myself. And how did I not see this coming? Of course she’d pull strings to present my award category.
“How could you not know?” Pain and accusation flash in her eyes.
Mal’s already on stage. I’ve got one eye on her, and one on Sora, and I’ve never felt so divided. Sora stalks to the gilded elevator doors and jabs the button.
“Sora, please. Just wait. Five minutes.”
“I can’t, Jack. I just…” Sora’s eyes are filling with tears.
“Fine. Then let’s go somewhere. Let’s talk. I’ll come with you.” I’d do anything to make her stop crying. Anything.
“As the sole heir to the Starr family fortune,” Mal begins, “I’ve been very fortunate to eat at some of the finest restaurants in the world. My family owns some of them, and it was my late father’s favorite pastime to talk to the pastry chefs in our kitchens. He used to say if a hotel couldn’t serve good desserts to its guests, then it might as well just be a roadside motel.”
A murmur of chuckles ripples politely through the audience.
“Please, Sora.”
“Jack, I don’t think there’s anything to talk about.” Sora jabs the elevator button again.
“I’m so very honored to present tonight’s award for Best Pastry Chef,” Mal continues. She’s calling out the nominees. “And the Golden Chef goes to…” She cracks open the white envelope. “Jack Mann.”
Sora looks at me, eyes sad. “Go on,” she tells me. The elevators ding, announcing the arrival of an elevator.
“No, Sora, wait. Just…” The spotlight is on me. Everyone is applauding. But I’m not moving. The elevator doors slide open.
“While we wait for the winner to make it to the podium,” Mal says, “I just want to take this opportunity to announce Jack’s new endeavor. With his prize money, we are going to open a bakery together. Coming next month!”
The applause kicks up a notch. But Sora’s eyes have turned coal black.
“She’s backing your bakery?” Her voice is weak and defeated. The elevator doors begin to close, but I stop them with a hand.
“No.” I shake my head. “Absolutely not. She’s been threatening to get involved, but I told her no.”
But Mal is still talking.
“We’re so very excited to be announcing the opening of Jack Mann’s—the new Golden Chef winner—casual new bakery, complete with the full backing of Starr Incorporated. Starr now owns the property and will be working hand-in-hand to launch Jack’s new bakery.”
I feel like I’ve been hit by a Mack truck. The license plate reads “Mal Starr.” Everything in my field of vision goes wonky, and I barely hear the applause of the audience.
This cannot be happening.
“Go on and accept your award, Jack.” Sora pushes my hand from the elevator, just as Mal appears by my side.
“He’s a little shy!” she jokes as she loops her arm through mine and tugs me hard. I’m just … shell-shocked. The elevator doors slide shut on Sora, her eyes shining with tears. I recover too late. I jab uselessly at the elevator button, but the car is already gone.
“Come on, Jack-a-boo. Your public awaits,” Mal whispers, holding the microphone against her hip. “I told you I’d buy your bakery if you didn’t bring me as your plus-one.” Her voice is barely an audible hiss.
I take the microphone from her. My ears ring. I suddenly feel nauseous.
“Thank you so much for the award. I’m so grateful.” Another elevator slides open. “But I have to go.”
The elevator doors open and I step in. In thirty-eight seconds, I’m back on the ground floor. I run out, looking for Sora. Where is she? Not in the lobby. Not near the modern reflecting pool. Nowhere. I run through the revolving glass doors and find myself in the frigid February night, frantically searching one way and then another. I see Sora, sans coat, walking away to the corner.
“Sora!” I call. What is she doing? She’s going to freeze. I just have my tuxedo jacket on and the cold already slips straight through the fabric, like ghost hands against my ribs. I run to her—she’s working hard to get away from me, though her stilettos and the icy sidewalks slow her down.
Cabs and rideshares rush by on Michigan Avenue. She flings up her arm, trying to signal one. Two cars speed by already carrying passengers in the back seats.
“Sora, wait.” I grab her elbow, which feels like ice. “You’re going to catch cold.” I shrug out of my jacket and throw it over her shoulders, but as she turns, I see the tears streaking down her face.
“You could’ve just been honest. That Mal is backing your bakery.”
“She’s not. I promise, she’s not.”
“I just … I can’t believe you.” Sobs choke her voice. I can barely understand what she’s saying. “You … lied to me.” She flashes her phone in my face. She’s found a photo on Mal’s social. It’s a selfie Mal took of us. On that night. That stupid mistake of a night. She’s licking my face. We’re both drunk. At the bar. The night I took Mal home. Damn it. I can’t deny that.
“See? That look on your face. It’s true, isn’t it?”
“Sora. Please. Let’s talk about this.” A cab slides to the curb beside us.
“No.” She opens the cab door and slides in. “I can’t believe you’re just like all the others,” she says, damning me. She slams the door before I can say another word. And then the cab leaves me, jacket-less, in subzero wind chill, standing alone on Michigan Avenue.