Page 55 of Knot Your Sugar

I open the window in my living room, letting the fresh morning air and the cheerful sounds of Lakeview waking up fill my small apartment. The sun on my face feels glorious.

Two minutes later, I grab my bottle of DuoBlocks from the kitchen counter and tap out the two daily pills that are supposed to keep my hormones in check (I mean,they haven’t been perfect lately. But hey, at least I haven’t ended up bonded or anything). I set them on the small table in the living room, ready to take.

After a quick, refreshing shower where I try very hardnotto replay last night some more, I pull on my favorite comfy jeans and a soft t-shirt. Just as I pop two slices of bread into the toaster, my phone rings, Pierre’s name flashing on the screen. Ugh. What does he want?

"Elena," I answer, tucking the phone between my ear and shoulder as I cross to the open living room window. I lean against the frame, letting the sun warm my skin. "Good morning, Pierre."

"Elena." His gruff voice crackles through the line, thick with his French accent and the usual weight of sky-high expectations. "You are… prepared for tomorrow’s final competition?"

"Yes, Pierre," I reply, though I’m not entirely sure if it was a question or a warning.

"Hmph. Yousounddifferent," there’s a pause. "Almost… confident."

Is it that obvious? "Well, I am feeling good about my chances," I say, trying to sound modest. "And actually, I’ve been thinking about what to make. Maybe your classic Lakeview Apple Pie…"

"A masterpiece of generations," he interjects predictably.

"Indeed," I agree quickly. "But I was wondering… what if I were to, say, introduce a subtle hint of cardamom to the applefilling? And perhaps a salted caramel drizzle woven through the lattice top? Just a thought, to give it a modern twist, something… unexpected." I hold my breath, bracing for the inevitable explosion.

Silence stretches on the line. A long, assessing kind of silence that makes me want to check if the call dropped. "Cardamom and salted caramel…" He says at last, before taking another pause. "Perhaps… perhaps we candiscussthese…innovations… after the competition. If, and only if, you place in the top three."

My jaw nearly hits the floor. Pierre? Considering changes to his sainted pie recipe? This is monumental. "Thank you, Pierre! And I've got the final covered, I won’t let you down."

"See that you don’t," he grumbles, though there’s now an unexpected lack of his usual bite. "And Elena?"

"Yes?"

"I may be returning to Lakeview a little earlier than planned. Tomorrow, in fact. In time to witness your…performance… in the final."

"Oh! That’s great… Uh, was your trip to France alright?"

"Yes, the… shortened holiday was fine." He clears his throat. "The point is, Elena, I will be there. I expect you to be ready. To honor my bakery’s reputation."

"Understood, Pierre. I’ll make you proud."

"Good." And with a final, curt "Goodbye," he hangs up.

I lean further out the window, a giddy laugh bubbling up. Pierre, the immovable bastion of baking tradition, actually considering my ideas. This day is starting off brilliantly. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, my love life is… delightful, and my curmudgeonly mentor might actually be evolving? Miracles do happen. I’ll definitely rock tomorrow’s final. This is going to be—

The acrid smell of something rudely interrupts my triumphant internal monologue. Smoke!

My head whips around. Oh God. The toaster. My toasts!

I rush back into the kitchen just as the smoke alarm, with a piercing, ear-splitting shriek, decides to join the party. Flames, small but angry, are spreading across the kitchen counter from my toaster slots. And there, right in the danger zone… sits my bottle of DuoBlocks. Close enough to taunt me. Too far to save without risking a trip to the ER.

"No, no, no, no,no!" I shriek, panic a cold fist clenching my heart.

My brain kicks into emergency mode. Fire extinguisher. Hallway.Now!

I fling open my apartment door, the smoke alarm still wailing like a banshee, and grab the heavy red extinguisher from its bracket on the wall. Back in the kitchen, my hands are shaking so badly it takes me three agonizing attempts to pull the pin and get the damn thing operational. All the while, I’m watching in horror as the flames stretch taller.

"Shit! Come on, work, you stupid thing!" I finally manage to unleash a torrent of white foam. After a few long seconds, the fire finally dies with a pathetic hiss, but not before my pill bottle is a melted, blackened mess of plastic.

Silence. Well, save for the dripping of foam and the incessant beeping of the smoke alarm, which I promptly silence by yanking its battery out.

A sudden shout startles me. "Elena! Should I call the fire department?" The unmistakable voice of Mrs. Nguyen (from 2B) rings out from the stairwell, slicing through the quiet

"Sorry, Mrs. Nguyen!" I call back, my voice strained. "Just a small kitchen accident. Everything's fine now!"

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