AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I pull away from Fallon, wide-eyed.
“Surprise!” Carrie beams. “We thought you could use some extra support today.”
Support. Right.
A mask falls over my face as I turn to my parents. My mother is wearing a silk blouse and perfectly tailored pants. Her hair is dyed a dark-chocolate color, twisted neatly at the nape of her neck. My father is in a three-piece suit, his silver hair combed back from his forehead. They walk with the same confident gait I recognize so well, something like haughty pride glimmering in their eyes.
“Jennifer,” my mother says, grasping my arms to give me an air kiss on each cheek.
“Mom.” I force a smile. “Dad. I wasn’t expecting you.”
My mother gives me an assessing look, glances at Fallon for a fraction of a second, then turns back to me. “We were delighted to be invited out for the finale. Your father and I are very keen to see how you rank.”
How I rank. Of course. Do they really think that’s the same as being here to support me?
“How wonderful!” Carrie laughs, clapping her hands, and the whole barn follows.
Once the greetings are over, I notice the production crew has also led Nora out to stand beside Fallon. Is she the only family of his they could find?
Fallon and I are led back to our station while our family members are directed to a few chairs on the side of the barn. We watch Tex and Reg bring their pies to the front and receive glowing reviews. More perfect pastry, but slightly simplistic decoration. Their custard pies look better than ours, though. Tex’s and Reg’s wives are led out with their children, and tearful greetings are exchanged. Emma and Carla had a harder time, with two of their pies having soggy bottom crusts, but apparently delicious fillings.
“Your chocolate and Mexican chili pie is incredible,” Heather says. “I’m going to need that recipe.”
Carla preens, and I can’t quite hide my smile. Then, the third family reunion happens. Carla’s husband is a short mustachioed man with tears in his eyes. He walks out of that same door and practically runs to his wife and daughter. A section of the mezzanine erupts in cheers, and Emma cries out at the sight of what looks like dozens of family members cheering and chanting for Emma and Carla.
That is support.
My eyes dart to my parents, and I feel like I’m twelve years old again, getting yelled at for a B+ on a test. My mother is sitting with her back ramrod straight, eyes on the front of the room, a dour expression on her face. My father glances at me, inclining his head in an almost regal way.
It makes me feel small.
My nerves come back with a vengeance. If I don’t win, will I need to endure snide comments from them? I’m exhausted at the thought of it. I’ve lived my life dragging around impossible expectations that colored the way I see everything. I’ve held myself to an unreachable standard. I’ve kept myself apart from friends and acquaintances because I didn’t feel good enough.
This past month, in the safety of this competition bubble, I’ve learned that I can make friends. A weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I can laugh and engage in small talk. I can hug people and not hate it. I can laugh without worry.
…but will it last?
Fallon must sense the stress mounting in me, because he puts his hand on my lower back and gives me a sly wink. My tension eases.
When the judges break to deliberate, I let out a long breath. With a squeal, I hear my girlfriends jump up from their chairs above.
“You got this, Jen!” Candice shouts. “We love you!”
She points to her T-shirt and this time, when I look at the blown-up image of my face, I just laugh. Then my eyes flick to my mother, who has a brow arched in disdain and her lips pursed.
My smile fades.
I know I shouldn’t care. I’m a grown woman. I have a business of my own. By any metric, I’m undeniably successful. Why does it bother me that my mother doesn’t approve of my friends?
Seeing that expression on my mother’s face is like picking at an old scab that’s never quite healed.
Shifting my gaze to Fallon, I realize why.
My parents’ love was conditional. When I did well, they showed affection. When I was less than perfect, they’d be cold, removed. They withheld affection when I was anything less than what they expected. That’s how I learned my worth as a child—and I carried those wounds for over forty years.
My one and only boyfriend cared about me only when I was ticking his boxes. As soon as I wasn’t what he wanted, fitting into his perfect life, he pulled back. He withdrew his affection, too.
But with Fallon, it’s different. When we messed up the croissants, he didn’t think less of me. When I tried to nitpick any of our bite-sized challenges, he’d pull me back from the edge. He’d remind me of everything that went well, or kiss me until I forgot what I was talking about. For the whole month, I’ve felt nothing but unwavering support from him. How we did in challenges never changed how he treated me.
