Country Tied || 1D au

Chapter 2

~Chapter 2~

I collapsed on my bed without taking off my shoes---or any other greasy work clothes---and closed my eyes. My day was horrible. I didn't think it could have gotten worse than taking out the trash but Kitchen Nazi had me go through it to find the miniscule dessert spoon he claimed I tossed in there by mistake. I knew the spoons were complete. He just wanted me to suffer---or out of the way. For whatever reason, he succeeded. I was close to quitting. I was sure I could find another summer job that would count as an internship. I didn't have to work in a kitchen. I just needed a decent boss who didn't take his male PMS out on me. Maybe I could intern for a magazine like my best friend Camille? But I didn't care for magazines. My first and only love was food.

I felt myself drifting into unconsciousness when my cell phone beeped. I cracked one eye open, remembering that the last time I did that, I had an eyeful of Kitchen Nazi's throbbing vein.

MESSAGE FROM CAMILLE: 

Lor! What you up to?

MESSAGE FROM LAUREN: 

Hey, Cams. Comatose. Cannot work there anymore. Want to die.

MESSAGE FROM CAMILLE: 

What happened? :( Want me to come over?

MESSAGE FROM LAUREN: 

Ok I can make you some brownies.

MESSAGE FROM CAMILLE: 

Can't wait! :)

Camille Mitchell was my bestest friend in the whole world--there was just no other way to describe her. We'd been friends since pre-kindergarten when our teacher decided I need someone my age to bring me out of my wary shell. Of course, she assigned me to friendly, bubbly, sparkly-eyed Camille who promptly led me to the cooking toys where we happily played together amidst the yelling and roughhousing of the other kids. I arranged all the food toys in a bowl and she pretended to eat them with a plastic purple spoon, the whole time talking up a storm. That fateful day eventually led to play dates where I would make real dishes, and no matter how awful they turned out--charred, overly salted, or bland beyond belief--she always gave them a chance. I could still see her chubby eight-year-old face chewing and chewing and chewing as I anxiously waited for her reaction. That was why I loved her to bits.

As I was about to get up and start on the brownies I promised Camille, my cell phone rang. No one called me unless it was a total emergency. And that never boded well for my highly excitable (in other words, high strung) nerves.

Aunt Maretella's name was flashing on my screen. Shit.

~~~

Camille burst into my room. "Where are my brownies?" she demanded. There was a flush to her usually porcelain-white, no longer chubby cheeks--she lost the baby fat in high school (she was a tad bit of thin when we were in elementary but got most of her baby fats on our high school days), which was a good thing. I wouldn't have wanted to lose my official taste tester just because she didn't want to put on a few pounds. What a travesty that would that be.

"Uh, I haven't had the chance to make them, Cams." I gave her what I hoped looked like an apologetic grin. I think it came out looking more sheepish.