Page 283 of A Taste of Vanilla

A large, burly man stretches his arm out, trying to get his attention. “Those tattoos are amazing, man. Where did you get them done? I’m looking at a chest piece.”

Warren freezes for half a second.

“Thank you,” he says before telling him about the shop a few hours from here and several shops in Germany.

An hour later, the first journalist arrives.

Not from the big paper. A local arts and food newsletter writer named Priya, who has covered small restaurants, charity events, and once wrote a serious piece about crab dip economics.

Marley warned me she might come, but I’m still not ready when she introduces herself.

“Halston?” she asks, her tone careful and kind. “I don’t want to disrupt you, but I wanted to ask if you’re willing to make any comment beyond the statement.”

My mouth goes dry.

But I look at all the support surrounding me, wipe my hands on my apron, and say, “Sure.”

Priya turns on her recorder after asking if it’s okay.

“What do you want people to understand about your statement?” she asks.

My hands tremble. “I want people to understand that I’m not asking for any hate or negativity to be directed at Barrett Whitaker,” I say. “I’m not asking anyone to take my side because my engagement ended badly. I’m asking for transparency. If a critic reviews a business owned by his son’s ex-fiancée after the breakup, and if there were private conversations about the business owner that informed the framing, the readers deserve to know that context.”

She nods. “What about claims that Bitter Bloom became too gimmicky or unfocused?”

I laugh.

“Bitter Bloom is playful. It always has been, from the day I started it. It was playful in the early days when Barrett praised it, and it was playful when he criticized it. The difference is not that I suddenly became too much; it’s that someone decided too much was no longer charming.”

I keep going.

“I don’t need everyone to like my bakery. Taste is personal. Criticism is part of business. But I won’t let a personal narrative dress itself up as objectivity and define what I built.”

She glances at the pastry case. “And what did you build?”

I look around at everyone. Everything we’ve spent days making.

Then back to Priya.

“I built a bakery where sweetness is taken seriously. Where joy can be technical. Where weird ideas get structure andbecome something to be celebrated. Where latte names can be long, but they make someone smile, and people can come and feel like they belong to something a little brighter than the day they were having.”

She smiles. “I love that.”

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “I have flour in my bra and I’m terrified out of my mind, so thank you for saying that.”

She laughs. A few questions later, she thanks me and steps aside.

Marley appears in front of me. “Do not cry,” she says, but I’m already crying.

“I’m not.”

“You literally are.” She hugs me hard. “I’m proud of you.”

It just makes me cry harder.

Oliver pokes his head around the doorway. “Crying is a health code violation.”

I lift my head. “Go sell your sports cocktails.”