Why Does He Like It When I Roast Him?

I loved eating cakes. My dad would bring me one every day after work, and my mom bought a full set of oven and baking tools, patiently learning how to bake them for me. I once thought I was the happiest little princess in the world until the day my parents divorced. The person who came to pick up my dad turned out to be the bakery owner. My mom turned to me, growling, "This is all your fault! If you hadn't asked for cakes every day, your dad never would've cheated!" She stretched out her hands, covered in burn scars, and screamed hysterically, "I slaved away making cakes for you, and these hands have never healed since. What did you do? You both think the stuff from outside is so much better!" She grabbed a baking sheet and smacked me hard with it. I bit my lip, not daring to make a sound. That night, she brought home a little girl. Ignoring the pain all over my body, I begged for her forgiveness. "Mom, I'm sorry. Please don't throw me away. I swear I'll never eat another cake!" She slapped me across the face, but that wasn't enough to quench her anger. She tossed me into the big oven. "I'm not your mom! You love cakes so much? Stay in there and reflect on what you've done! You and your worthless dad both deserve to die!" After she slammed the door and stormed out, the little girl skipped over to the oven, grinning smugly as she hit the switch. "From now on, your mom is gonna be mine!" The oven kicked on, and the temperature began to rise. I smiled bitterly. At least this way, my mom could finally be happy.

My boyfriend, Wendell Lowe, has been complaining about my best friend, Carissa Chapman, for three years. He hates the fact that she's loud, uploads too many selfies on her social media feed, and doesn't bother looking at the price whenever she's ordering food at a restaurant. Every time a gathering is over, Wendell feels the need to talk smack about Carissa. "Don't invite her to the next gathering in the future. She's so annoying." I keep thinking that Wendell really dislikes Carissa. So when Carissa gets a new boyfriend, I quickly tell him the good news. "Carissa has a boyfriend now. She won't be bothering us anymore." But Wendell gets mad instead. "Who's the guy? Is it the IT guy from her social circle? Isn't he the one who pulls OT every day? Can he even spend time with her?" One week later, Carissa brings her new boyfriend, Gavin Ferguson, over to our gathering. Gavin keeps putting food on Carissa's plate, pouring her water, and dabbing the corner of her mouth for her. Wendell, on the other hand, looks extremely stormy the whole time. After the gathering is over, I comment, "Gavin is pretty decent. He's pretty caring toward Carissa." Suddenly, Wendell stops in his tracks. "He's just putting on an act. Carissa is the type who gets touched far too easily. She shouldn't be with a guy like him. "If anything, she needs to find someone who really understands her. Someone who knows that she's terrified of the dark, doesn't eat cilantro, and often smiles and says that she's fine whenever she's sad." The more Wendell speaks, the softer and shakier his voice becomes. Under the streetlight, I notice how damp his lashes are. A tear soon slides down his nose bridge. For the past three years, Wendell has been admonishing Carissa relentlessly. It turns out it isn't because he hates her. I turn on my heel and walk in the other direction. "You should seek her out. Don't take the detour this time."

While studying abroad, I move into a shared apartment. Not a single day goes by without my housemate, Stuart Harper, calling himself some variation of a sweet, brave, and responsible guy. On the very first day he moves in, he hires workers to take out the insulation from the walls. I confront him about it, but he simply grins at me and proudly boasts about his decision. "That was all just some shoddy foam that the construction workers padded the walls with. Not only was it useless, but it was even taking up so much space. The fact that I forked out my own money to get rid of it proves that I'm such a sweet and responsible guy!" With a scowl on my face, I explain to Stuart the purpose of having proper insulation. He immediately leans in close with an admiring gaze. "I'm so sorry. I had no idea! I just wanted to do something nice for us. What should I do now? You have to help me think of something!" I naively assume Stuart just lacks common sense and doesn't act with malice. Thus, I willingly enter into a cycle of always cleaning up after his messes. One day, I get a fever. He ends up buying a secondhand electric slow cooker and declares he's going to take care of me by cooking me soup. My head throbs as I quickly put a stop to his attempt to heat the electric slow cooker on the induction stove. I tell him to let me catch a nap before I teach him how to cook later. But not long after I fall asleep, he secretly sticks the electric slow cooker into the microwave to heat it up. The microwave explodes. As the flames start to spread, Stuart screams and dashes out of the apartment at once. The fire alarm wakes me up. I try to evacuate the burning building, only to find that Stuart has locked the door from the outside. In the end, the fire burns me to a crisp. After that, however, he starts twisting things around. He goes online and says with a helpless expression, "My housemate set the apartment on fire while cooking. I'm the one who had to call the fire department on his behalf, and I even had to compensate the landlord for him. I'm definitely the sweetest, bravest, and most responsible guy to ever live!" As the online community proceeds to condemn me, Stuart uses the attention and publicity to go viral as a content creator. Some time later, my eyes open again. This time, I'm going to roast him good.

On my wedding anniversary, I go to Anthony Scroll's company in an attempt to surprise him. No one at the front desk stops me from entering. But what stops me in my tracks is the fact that a photo of me is printed on the welcome mat outside the CEO's office. There's also a sentence printed on the mat that says, "You'll be bestowed with wealth if you step on her face." My hands start trembling out of rage. As soon as I open the door to the office and try to bring up the topic in front of Anthony, Alexis Timmer, a shareholder, as well as one of Anthony's "boys", throws a stack of useless documents at my face instantly. The sharp edges of the papers leave papercuts on my cheek, sending white-hot pain flaring through my senses. Alexis has one leg crossed over the other as she chews on a piece of gum innocently. "Oh, hey Kimberly! Sorry about that. The papers came flying out of my hand for no reason. You see, the programmers are extremely stressed, so the mat is meant for them to vent their stress. "Anthony has agreed to the usage of your photo, by the way. After all, it makes things even livelier for the company. A housewife like you will never understand our niche humor." Anthony takes off his earphones before shooting me a berating glance. Then, he passes a bottle of water to Alexis. "Alex is just like one of the boys. Stop using your own rules to restrict her." As Alexis twists open the bottle cap, she tilts her chin in my direction smugly. "Also, Anthony hates it whenever you show up at the company with your stupid surprises, Kimberly. The food that you bring him always ends up getting eaten by us as a form of punishment."

After regaining my hearing, I happily march over to the room of my arch-rival, eager to flaunt in front of him—only to hear him moaning my name as he does what all guys do for pleasure.

In the third year of my eating disorder, my husband, Nikolai Hollowell, is the only person who still insists on making me eat. Even when I vomit until I'm a trembling mess, he will make another dish for me again half an hour later. He coaxes gently yet stubbornly, "Have one more bite of the apple slice, Emi." But the moment I smell the food, I throw up again until I can barely breathe. That night, I make another post on X to ask for help. "How is someone with an eating disorder supposed to keep living?" The top comment says, "Get a boyfriend who's a chef! My darling cooks different dishes for me every single day, all 365 days without repeating once. Even the apple slices he cuts are shaped like cute little bunnies, so I absolutely love eating now." Someone replies enviously, "Wow! Where do you find a man like that?" She answers, "Find one? Good men like that no longer circulate on the market. He is actually married. His wife has had anorexia for three years. She has become only skin and bones. "He says just looking at her kills his appetite, and he does not even want to touch her. Well, I'm nothing like her. I always finish every dish he makes." My breathing catches in my throat. This morning, Nikolai personally made bunny-shaped apple slices for me. My fingertips turn cold as I tap into the woman's profile. Her caption reads, "Wow! If your wife won't eat bunny-shaped apple slices, then I will!" Attached is a photo of a man's long, elegant fingers holding an apple slice up to the woman's mouth. And the one reflected in her starry eyes after zooming in—is a face identical to Nikolai's.