RHETT
I pull my rolling laptop bag behind me as I head for the small cafe at the edge of the port. Today, we’re in Miami, which means I can take a little extra time to pick up some groceries and get my legs under me again before we head back out to sea on another vessel.
I stop at my favorite cafe, The Salty Flamingo, and set up shop at one of the outdoor bistro tables. This is where I like to work when we’re docked in Miami for a day or two. Seeing people other than the ones I serve or work with is vital to my mental health.
I order an iced tea with lemon and a Cuban sandwich with fried plantains and then open my laptop. I start by researching some new ideas for desserts. Nothing related to recipes is exciting me, so I head to my email, and that's when I see it.
There’s a new reality show focused on baking. I don’t know how I got on their email list, but I barely look at it before I click the link to apply. There’s no question that I want as much visibility and experience as possible. This one has three prizes for the winner—a cookbook deal, making the wedding cake for a celebrity couple I couldn’t care less about, and most importantly, a fat two-hundred-thousand-dollar check.
My parents could pull that much out of the safe right this very second. I get that. Life would be so much easier—financially, anyway—if I would just go back and finish college, become a doctor, and inherit more money than I’d ever need.
But I can’t do it. I just can’t.
I’m not like my brothers. Or my parents. I feel like an only child, but an orphaned one. Basically, a guy with no family. I mean, I have them, but the emotional connection doesn’t exist. There are expectations, criticisms, and disappointments that could feed the masses, but no real love. Not the kind I’d want.
So, the only way I will build the life I want is to do it on my own, financially and emotionally. And at thirty-one years old, the opportunities are only getting fewer and fewer as time marches on.
I fill out the form, telling the producers about my background, education, and future goals. I don’t even care what the show is about or what I must do. That money has my name on it.
* * *
SAVANNAH
Two weeks have passed without a word from the reality show people. I knew it was a pipe dream. I’m sure thousands of more qualified people applied. Sadie had been so excited about it but hasn’t mentioned it in days. I think she knows it’s not happening, just like I do.
And it’s okay. I know it will all be okay. Somehow, I always skate by in life, just by the skin of my teeth. I don’t think I’m one of those people destined to do big, bold things. I think I’m one of the worker bees. You know, the people who keep things running in the world while other people take vacations, buy expensive handbags, and post about their exciting lives on social media.
But it really is okay. I always land on my feet. I have to believe I will this time. Somehow, I’ll come up with a way for Sadie to go to college, and maybe one day, I’ll come up with a way to open my own bakery. For some people, dreams just take longer.
I’m exhausted today for some reason. Big Thelma was on a roll this morning, yelling out orders like she was putting me through basic training.
“Stir that mix better so it won’t be grainy!”
“Your icing needs work!”
“Where’s that doughnut I was eating?”
Mind you, Big Thelma has no real training in the world of baked goods other than eating enough of them to put us out of business. She calls herself “self-taught,” which, from what I can gather, means she cooked and baked for her ten younger siblings growing up many decades ago.
And my icing doesn’t need work.
Some days, I wonder why I put up with her or any of it, really. The early hours. The boring, unfulfilling job. But then I see Sadie’s face at night and remember that I’m doing it for her. Sure, she’s twenty years old and not a baby anymore, but from the day she was born, she has been my baby. I have to do better for her.
After getting home from work, I fall onto the couch in a lump. I didn’t sleep well last night. Applying for that show got my hopes up, and I don’t usually allow that to happen. You see, although I’m a positive person, I don’t allow myself to get my hopes up about things. Historically, that hasn’t worked out for me.
For instance, I got my hopes up about my last relationship. His name was Connor, and he was dreamy… at first. He hung on my every word, told me how beautiful I was, and repeatedly said he wanted to marry me one day. We dated for exactly two years and twelve days before I broke up with him after a particularly bad argument. We only argued about one thing, really. It was always the same.
Sadie.
He thought it was ridiculous that she was over eighteen and I was still “taking care of her.” He couldn’t understand that we were all we had. Our mother was gone, and our fathers were never in the picture. Sadie was and will always be my top priority.
He blew up when I explained to him that we couldn’t get married until he accepted Sadie as a part of our family and someone who would always be close. At that moment, I realized that I didn’t want to be with someone who didn’t care about my sister like I did.
Sadie is a go-getter; one day, she will show me up in a big way. But for now, I feel responsible for making sure she gets to follow her dreams. She doesn’t demand that from me; I demand it from myself. Sadie always tells me to stop giving up my dreams for hers, but I just can’t.
Still, despite my recent breakup, I’m an optimist. I’m not sure I always live up to that description, though. I’m positive and practical. Is that even a thing?
My positivity is in the moment. I can fake it for long periods of time before I hide in my bathroom to cry. I’ve cried in all sorts of places. Behind the counter at the bakery. In my car. Into an empty icing piping bag. That almost suffocated me.
I feel like if I let my emotions bubble to the surface for too long, they’ll take over, and I might never get back to baseline. I must stay at baseline to survive. It’s funny the coping mechanisms you develop when you grow up like we did.
Just as I close my eyes to take a little nap, my phone buzzes in my pocket, startling me. I sit up quickly and fish it out, answering it on the third ring.
“Hello?” I say, sounding a bit breathless, like I just ran up a flight of stairs. I really need to get to the gym if pulling my phone from my pocket makes me out of breath.
“Is this Savannah Greene?” a chipper woman on the other end of the line asks.
“Yes, it is. Who’s calling?”
“This is Amanda Burton, the casting director for The Baking Games.”
My heart feels like it literally stalls in my chest. Like I need jumper cables to get it going again. I feel like my tongue won’t move. Do you know how hard it is to talk without a tongue? Turns out, very hard.
“Uh huh…” I mumble out, just to make some kind of sound. They don’t call you for a reality show unless they want you on a reality show, right?
“We were very impressed with your application video. The cake you made looked so delicious!”
For the application, I had to fill out an extensive form and make a five-minute video showing something I made, with clips showing the process. I made my famous coconut caramel layer cake. It’s usually a hit at parties. Well, the two times I’ve been invited to a party and made it.
“Thank you,” I say, finally getting the feeling back in my tongue. I take a quick sip of water from a bottle on the end table that has probably been sitting there for a week. Hope I don’t die.
“We’re in the final stages of choosing contestants for the show, and you made the cut!” She sounds like the hype person who comes out before Oprah gives a speech and gets the crowd excited—not that Oprah needs help getting people excited.
“Wow. Really?” I’m shocked. I’m not all that special, to be honest. Just a run-of-the-mill gal trying to make it in this crazy world. I’m blown away that they even watched my video. “So, what’s next?”
“Well, there’s quite a lot, actually. More paperwork, interviews with other members of our team, background checks, and psychological evaluation if we get further. There’s also a health check to ensure you’re suitable for the stress of a competition like this.”
“Sounds a little like joining the military or something,” I mutter under my breath.
“I know it’s a lot, but the prizes are amazing, right?”
“Definitely.” The prizes are the only thing keeping me motivated at this point.
“I just need to ask if you’re interested in moving along in the process then?”
I think of Sadie and don’t hesitate. “Absolutely.”
* * *
The last few weeks have been a whirlwind. After finishing all the rounds of interviews, background checks, and everything else the producers wanted me to do, I can’t believe I’m standing on the sidewalk in front of the airport, one bag of rolling luggage in my hand and a duffel bag over my shoulder.
“I’m going to miss you so much, sissy!” Sadie says for the tenth time since we left the house. I try not to cry each time she says it.
“I’m going to miss you, too,” I say, bumping into a man who seems hell-bent on getting to his plane on time, even if he has to take me out in the process. The Atlanta airport is the busiest in the world, and I can see that on full display today. It’s early summer, so kids are out of school, and families are heading out on vacation.
I wish I had that. The doting husband carrying my luggage. The two kids running beside me, tiny suitcases in hand. A vacation to a tropical beach or to tour Europe. To make memories. That’s what is really missing from my life. Making memories.
I shake my head in an effort to get the thoughts loose so I can refocus on what I’m doing. This is for Sadie. And for me, too, I suppose. I need a way out of the grocery store bakery lifestyle. Big Thelma was not at all amused when I told her I was leaving for six weeks. She would’ve fired me if anyone else was interested in working with her. Instead, the poor new girl from the seafood section got recruited to take my spot temporarily. Good luck to you, poor new girl.
Sadie could’ve driven me to Sweet Haven, the little town near Savannah where the show is filming. Ironic that a baking show would be filmed there, I know. She could’ve driven me, but that would’ve taken hours out of her day, and I didn’t like the idea of her driving back alone.
Instead, I opted to take the hour-long flight from Atlanta to Savannah. I don’t particularly love flying, but it felt like the right thing. Anything to keep Sadie safe.
I hug her one more time and then make my way inside without looking back. It’s the only way to keep from breaking down.
* * *
RHETT
Flying makes me sick. Every single time I fly, I need a barf bag. Yet I can float out on the open ocean with nary a problem. It will never make sense to me.
Thankfully, the flight from Miami to Savannah wasn’t very long—about an hour and a half—but it didn’t take long to make me turn green and lose my breakfast into the poor airplane nausea bag. I really felt bad for that little girl sitting next to me. She saw some things a child shouldn’t see. I think she’s scarred for life.
I step into the terminal, happy to be on earth again, and head toward the outside doors. Producers will pick me up straight from the airport and take me to the secure location where we will film.
Apparently, the little town is called Sweet Haven. Well, isn’t that cute? I’m being sarcastic if that wasn’t clear. I think the town name is silly.
It’s about twenty minutes from Savannah, but we won’t see much of the town. Just the house and the grounds. We’ll be on a pretty strict lockdown during the six weeks of filming so that we don’t get any outside influence that could muck up the competition results.
That’s fine with me. I’m not what one would call a “people person.” I like being alone. I like working alone. I can trust myself. When you include other variables—namely, people—you lose control. As long as I’m in charge, at least, things go well.
I decide to stop by the cafe I see and get a ginger ale. My mom always gave them to us when we were sick as kids. It’s one of my few fond memories of growing up with my mom. When I was sick, I got attention. Not for long, but at least it was something.
The server gives me the ginger ale to go, and I turn around and head toward the outer doors again. And that’s when something catches my eye. Something striking and hard to miss.
Red hair.
Sure, I know lots of people have red hair. Gingers, as the young people call them. Well, not that I’m old. I’m only thirty-one, but to actual young people, that is old.
I turn my head just in time to see her walk out of the bathroom. She’s walking toward a vending machine. Her long, wavy red hair is bobbing as she walks. I can only see her from behind, but I swear that’s her. Why would she be here? On the same day as me? In this particular airport? What are the odds?
* * *
SAVANNAH
This guy is going to kill us. I don’t know who taught him to drive, but he wasn’t listening, or they were drunk. He’s taking every turn like we’re running from gangsters with large guns and fast cars.
“Can you slow down?” I ask for the third time. The producer sitting next to me doesn’t seem to notice that our deaths are imminent. She continues staring at her phone, frantically typing. She’s probably typing out her last will and testament.
“It’s fine,” the guy responds in very broken English.
“Isn’t this scaring you?” I finally ask Nina, the producer with the big doe eyes and giant fake boobs.
She giggles. Actually giggles. She doesn’t laugh. It’s a giggle like a cartoon character from the fifties. “Nah. Dmitri knows how to drive very well. He drives me all the time.”
“Uh-huh,” I mumble, staring out the window. I wish I had my phone right now. This drive is both terrifying and boring. “How much longer?”
“About ten minutes.”
Ten long minutes.
I keep going back and forth in my mind as to whether this whole thing was even a good idea. Leaving Sadie and my job and for what? The chance of winning a prize? How do I know I’ll even make it past the first week? And then I’ve lost everything.
Well, not really. Sadie will still be there, and unfortunately, so will Big Thelma. She’ll probably spend her time getting meaner. Doing push-ups and eating doughnuts at the same time. The image makes me smile for a moment. Maybe I’ll be here long enough to actually miss Big Thelma, but I’m not sure I have enough time left in my life for that to happen.
I guess I’m overthinking this. Sadie isn’t a baby. She’s a grown woman with a job and a life outside of me. Parents must go through this when their kids get older and leave the nest. Only Sadie hasn’t actually left the nest. Neither of us can leave the nest because we can’t afford a new nest.
We pass a sign that says Sweet Haven, which then takes us down a long dirt road with the biggest live oak trees I’ve ever seen. Swaths of Spanish moss hang from them over the road. It is really beautiful, and nothing like the suburbs. If I lived here, I don’t think I’d ever leave.
I guess I imagined Sweet Haven would be an actual town, but it’s not. It’s a dot on the map.
“Do people actually live here?” I ask.
Nina nods. “A few. It’s not overly populated because there’s so much marshland. There are a few restaurants and shops; otherwise, it’s mostly old family land. Big Civil War era houses and such.”
We finally pull up outside of a beautiful Southern home. This place is like something out of a storybook. It’s white with black shutters, two stories tall, and covered in porches. It seems like every door and window has a porch.
“This is it?” I ask, craning my neck to look at the house.
“Yep.”
“It’s big.”
“You haven’t seen anything yet,” she says, giggling again.
I step out of the SUV when Dmitri finally gets out and opens my door. He doesn’t seem to get in a hurry unless he’s actually driving. Then we’re trying to beat the speed of light. Or sound. Whichever one is faster.
But to open my door or remove my luggage? Nah, Dmitri has all the time in the world.
“Thanks,” I say, stepping out into the ungodly hot Southern sun. I look around for more contestants. “Where is everybody?”
“Oh, we were very careful to bring each of you at different times so you don’t see each other until you’re inside.”
Hmm. That seems weird. We don’t know each other, so what does it matter if we see each other? Oh well. I don’t really understand how all this TV stuff works. I’m sure they know best.
Nina and Dmitri walk me up the stairs and then set my rolling suitcase and duffel bag at the front door. They both turn and start walking down the stairs.
“Wait! What am I supposed to do now?”
Nina giggles yet again. “Open the door, silly!”
Without another word, they hop into the SUV and speed off. This whole day has been one of the weirdest of my life. For all I know, this is all one big prank. Or they’ve dropped me at a very fancy serial killer’s house just to amuse themselves.
I throw the duffel bag over my shoulder and grab the rolling suitcase, slowly turning the doorknob to the big, old house. It’s heavy wood and creaks when I open it, which is a bit spooky at first—that is until I see the inside. Good, dear Lord. It’s gorgeous.
“Oh my gosh,” I say to no one in particular. I crane my head in all directions, looking up and down, side to side. There’s a long hallway with original hardwood floors in front of me with rooms on both sides and a huge, wide curved staircase going up to the next level. I don’t know where I’m supposed to go.
“Savannah?” A man emerges from nowhere, wearing a nice suit and a flashy smile. Obviously, the host, from his demeanor and the fact that he’s wearing a mic.
“That’s me,” I say, immediately aware that I’m about to be on national television for the next six weeks. Well, only that long if I’m lucky.
“Welcome to The Baking Games!” he says in a booming voice, as if I just won a brand-new washer and dryer on a game show. His white, toothy grin almost blinds me. He’s probably in his fifties with salt and pepper black hair, a fake tan, and those little crow’s feet beside his eyes. Why is it that men get better looking as they age, and women have to work so hard at it? Well, some men, I guess.
“Thank you.” I stand there like a deer in the headlights as he looks at me. Am I supposed to know what to do next?
His smile falls, and he yells, “Is somebody going to bring a flipping camera out here, or do I have to do it?”
Wow, talk about Jekyll and Hyde. He can turn that smile on and off like a lamp. I just stand there, frozen in place. I’m not somebody who likes confrontation or dramatic situations—perhaps I shouldn’t have signed up for a reality TV show—so I hope I can just get to my room and have some downtime.
I don’t think that’s what’s about to happen, though. A crew of cameras comes out of seemingly nowhere, lights click on, and the smile is back.
“Welcome to The Baking Games!” he shouts again, holding out his arm like he’s about to reveal a puzzle on Wheel of Fortune.
“Thank you,” I repeat.
“All of the other contestants have already arrived and are waiting in the parlor.”
The parlor?
He waves me to follow him and then swings open a door covered in black film so you can’t see through it. The cameras are so close to me that I feel like a celebrity running from the paparazzi.
I follow him into the parlor, and when my eyes adjust to the light, I see a group of people standing there in the small room. I assume these are my fellow contestants. Everyone is holding a glass of wine and smiling. Lights are everywhere, and even more cameras are present. The room is bigger than I thought. It looks like they knocked out a wall and made it larger for the show. That’s a shame in such a historic home.
“Savannah, meet your fellow challengers!” He points at the group, and everyone either waves, smiles, or holds up a glass of wine. Except for two people I notice immediately.
My pastry chef school nemesis, Rhett Jennings, and my very recent ex-boyfriend, Connor Kane.
I want to go home.