Sophie

In my family, passion was for the mind, not the heart. When I was growing up, my dad was no spicy Spaniard stereotype; he was rock steady and a total nerd. My mom was white, short, and definitely not bombastic in any way. I am also short, and I am not a fiery short person. I am a cool-under-pressure, capable, no-nonsense sort of short person. More of an Edna than a Buttercup.

There was one person, it seemed, who could really get me cooking. Gabe Sherwood. I rediscovered this fact when my best friend Lacy unexpectedly invoked his name one very, very early cold New England morning in her bakery.

I knew she needed a break, but I really needed to not have to roll dough with Gabe fucking Sherwood. Who would win this fight? Her, of course. I’m not a martyr, and I’m definitely not a pushover, but it was simply the most logical path to take. When I did the calculations, I had more room to give than Lacy.

It doesn’t mean I took my fate gracefully. It doesn’t mean I didn’t lash out and deflate one of Lacy’s rare moments of optimism. It doesn’t mean I didn’t metaphorically kick a puppy. Metaphorically. I would never kick a puppy.

I would, however, not keep my cool about Gabe, even to spare my best friend’s feelings. So, when she excitedly told me that he bought a ticket to the test run of the “date night” / “Bake Along” experience she was trying to put together at her bakery, I became someone other than Sophie Romero. I became a toddler.

“It’s so cool to have his support,” she was telling me, while squeezing fillings into a tray of popovers. We were hanging out right before her store opened. She let me have like three of them (ground pralines and cream, hell yes) to thank me for being there so early in the morning. “Because, like, he’s just doing this to support me. He’s not bringing a date. And I know you had a thing for him in college so I thought, maybe, I don’t know, this could be your chance to reconnect!”

“Lacy, spending an evening with Gabe is my worst nightmare.”

“Wait, what?”