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“What if we lose everything and I can’t go to Parsons?” I asked, filling the silence and giving voice to the fear that had been eating at my brain.
It was a selfish thought, and I knew it. I should only be worried about Batter and Bake, my parents’ livelihood, and I absolutely was, but there was also a part of me that agonized over the thought that even if my dream school accepted me, my parents would no longer be able to afford to send me there. Most of my family’s money came from money my father’s mother left him in her will, but it had long since been invested in our home and the family business. The rest sat in their retirement account. It’s not like we had tons of cash to spare, and the bakery only did so well.
“Don’t be silly. You know they’ll find a way to send you if you get in.”
“The tuition is nearly $40,000 a year, plus room and board and food in one of the most expensive cities in the country. I was lucky enough they agreed to foot the bill in the first place, but even if we don’t lose the lawsuit, how much money are they going to spend on lawyers to fight it?”
“Not $40,000,” Penelope said.
I shot her a dark look, then softened because she was only trying to make me feel better. “Maybe,” I said, but the truth of the matter was losing meant big trouble because if the business went under, I might as well kiss design school goodbye.
“Whoa. Did you see Thorne Roberts is in hot water again?” Penelope said, changing the subject.
Thorne Roberts? Who the heck cared about Thorne Roberts right now?I thought, picking my sketch back up and give my design another look.
“Mmm-hmm, for what?” I asked, distracted.
“Looks like he got drunk and drove a golf cart into a lake while one of his costars was with him.” P snorted. “Which would’ve been fine, but the costar broke his arm. Now they’re saying his new movie is on a hiatus until they figure out what to do. Rumor is they might drop him. Man, that would suck.”
“What would?” I asked, only half paying attention.
“Well, getting dropped. Could you imagine having someone watch your every move, having zero privacy.”
“Why do you watch those celebrity gossip shows, anyway?” I asked, not really expecting an answer as I glanced up at the screen to see the story she was talking about.
A harried Thorne Roberts, wearing dark shades and a hoodie pulled up over his inky-black hair, pushed through a crowd of fans and paparazzi outside of his hotel room while the bulbs of a camera flash went off in his face.
He’d been gifted the chance of a lifetime, a career most dreamed about, and he was throwing it away. A seed of bitterness sprouted in my chest.If only we could all be so lucky.
“Yeah, I feel really sorry for the guy. Must be such a hardship living his life. He probably flew into Virginia on a private jet and gave The Breaker a giant list of requests upon his arrival.”
“Hmm,” Penelope hummed in response, and I felt bad because I knew she was a huge fan. “Well, terrible reputation or not, he’s still the most beautiful guy I’ve ever seen.”
I grunted as they flashed another image of him from a recent awards show. He wore a black leather jacket that was most definitely designer and I imagined cost a small fortune. An arrogant smirk curled the corners of his lips above a jaw that could cut glass, and when he removed his sunglasses, he revealed eyes a startling shade of green.
Beside me, Penelope sighed, and I snorted. “I’ll be sure to tell Topher how beautiful you think Thorne is the next time I see him.”
She play-smacked me with a laugh. “Don’t you dare. He knows I only have eyes for him.”
“Oh, yeah?” I arched a brow, pointing my charcoal pencil toward the screen. “Because from where I’m sitting, it seems you’re mooning all over another dude.”
“It’s Thorne Roberts.” She waved toward the TV. “I mean, he’s hardly even real. It doesn’t count.”
“You’re right. He’s part robot, I forgot.”
“You know what I mean. He’s . . . a celebrity, unattainable, nothing more than a dream crush.”
I smiled and shook my head. “Yeah, well, he may be hot, but I pity anyone who has to work with him,” I said, then I tore the page from my sketchbook and crumpled it into a ball.
I shoved the plate with the crusts from my grilled cheese sandwich aside, and Penelope pointed at them, eyes bright. “Go ahead,” I said, knowing what she wanted without her having to ask.
“I can’t believe you always waste the best part.” Penelope snatched up the crusts and popped it into her mouth.
“That’s blasphemy,” I said, licking my buttery lips, “crust is the worst part.”
“Not when it’s your parent’s homemade bread. God, do you know how lucky you are to have parents who bake?”
“I’ll give you a loaf to take home,” I said, and when P hummed in pleasure, I laughed.
