Page 1 of Sweet Ruin

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DELILAH

Vivian Dorsey has added three new videos to the Dorsey Sisters shared album.

The notification pops up on the screen of my phone.

It’s propped against the flour bin where I always keep it while I work so I can see the timer.

It’s 1:04 in the morning on December 23rd. The first big day of the Christmas rush, and I’m the only one here.

I wipe my hands on my apron and swipe the notification away without opening it.

Viv posts stuff to that album all the time. It’s like my younger sister thinks it’s her Instagram feed. I’m not sure if she is unaware that she has some kind of auto-sync thing going, or if she just likes reminding me that her life is infinitely more glamorous than mine.

In the last few months alone, I’ve seen:

Photos of her long, tanned, Pilates-toned legs glistening with bronzer on a Caribbean beach.

Her hand—nails freshly manicured, of course—delicately clutching the stem of a champagne glass as it dangles over the rail of somebody’s yacht.

The purebred Maltese she bought on a whim in October wearing a handknit Louis Vuitton sweater.

A Four Seasons bathtub with rose petals floating in it.

Her and her equally skinny, equally glammed-up friends dancing behind the DJ booth at Marquee with their arms up.

Clips of her spinning around a sunlit villa on her recent Tulum trip, dress flaring wide around her impossibly snatched waist, asking whoever’s watching if she looks like a hippie with her hair down.

She’s twenty-nine. She doesn’t work. Dad’s money pays for her entire existence, and she’s never once pretended otherwise.

Nor does she feel an ounce of shame. I kinda think she’s allergic to it.

I set the phone back against the flour bin and sigh.

I don’t even want to know what she’s doing tonight, because it’s going to make me feel even worse about my current predicament.

I have four hundred and twelve sugar cookies to get through today, plus two wedding cakes for a Saturday I don’t want to think about yet, in addition to the regular case.

The croissant dough came out of the walk-in forty-five minutes ago and it’s still too cold to do anything with. I press it with my thumb to check, and⁠—

Yep. Hard as a rock.

Well, that’s okay. There’s tons of other stuff I can do in the meantime. It’s one of me versus many, many pastries that need to be conquered.

That comes with the territory. Opening a bakery is not for the faint of heart. But it was my lifelong dream, and now that I’ve finally dragged it into reality—kicking and screaming, but real—I couldn’t be happier.

I could have help here if I wanted it. I have four employees and I love them dearly, but I’ve already asked a lot from them this holiday season. Let them sleep in with their families today.

Do-It-All Delilah, goes the sing-song chant in my head.

That’s Viv’s voice, of course. She’s always called me that. Mostly because I do, in fact, do it all.

When we were growing up, who did Mom order to vacuum and mop the floors?

Me.

Who cooked breakfast and packed lunches and pulled weeds in the garden?