Want to Know a Secret? (9)

“Aw, you really know how to flatter a girl.”

There are some cut up strawberries on the plate too, so that’s the healthier element. But Bobby is meticulously eating around them. Oh well.

My own plate consists of an egg-white omelet and three strawberries. If I’m going to be on camera every week, I have to maintain my figure. So I never eat any of my sweet treats, and I go running three times a week. And speaking of looking my best, tomorrow I’ve got an appointment at the hairdresser to touch up my roots. My dark roots are very visible on camera—if I let it go, I always end up getting comments from viewers.

Elliot finishes his French toast in two minutes flat, then downs the rest of his coffee in a single gulp. Part of me is hoping he might stick around for a bit, but it’s clear he’s rushing to get to the office. Again.

I miss my husband.

“Sorry I’ve got to run.” Elliot leans in to kiss me, and I let him, although I’m tempted to turn my head so he’ll get cheek rather than lips. “I’m not sure if I’ll make it back in time for dinner.”

My heart sinks. “Elliot…”

“I told you, it’s crazy right now at work.” He chews on his lower lip. “Listen, if you can, why don’t you stop by the office and we’ll grab lunch together?”

I sniff. “Are you sure you’ll have time?”

“Hey.” He pulls me close to him and presses his lips against mine. Even after all these years, I still melt when he kisses me. Yes, my husband isn’t perfect, but I love being married to him. “I can always make time for you.”

Well, that’s not really true. But I’ll let that one go. Why pick a fight first thing in the morning?

Bobby is still taking his sweet time finishing his French toast, so I walk Elliot to the front door. He kisses me one last time, then hops into his Tesla and takes off, nearly smashing into the postal truck pulling up in front of our house. Considering how much money he spent on that damn car, you’d think he would drive more carefully. I own a white SUV that was voted safest car in the year I purchased it.

As he drives away, I go to my phone and load up the latest episode of April’s Sweet Secrets. The brownie episode is still in editing, but the episode I recorded last week is now live. I made a chocolate soufflé. The episode took me forever to film, because my first set of soufflés totally fell. I had to do the whole thing twice.

I’m very pleased with the number of views I’ve had so far. It looks like I may surpass the views on my last video. I start scanning through the comments:



April, this looks delicious!



You are a master in the kitchen! You make it look so easy!



I’m making this for my next dinner party. Thanks, April!



Love that shirt on you! Red is your color. The soufflé looks great!



I smile at the first several comments. For the most part, everyone is very supportive. I mean, it’s a baking show. There isn’t much controversial stuff on there. But then my fingers pause as the comments abruptly change in tone.



Disgusting! Why would April think anyone wants to eat this pile of crap?



Looks like something my dog did!



I think she poured that soufflé out of some newborn baby’s diaper.



One after another negative comment, filling the screen. I’ve received plenty of negative comments before, but never quite such a barrage of them. I thought the soufflé episode was really good. It came out looking just like a professional chef would make it.

A lump forms in my throat as I scroll down, waiting for the hateful comments to end. I finally get to the last one:



April’s secret is that she is a terrible cook and a worse person. Trust me—I know.



My phone almost falls out of my hand. You would think after all these years, I would be able to ignore comments like that. And I can, for the most part. I even had an episode where I made fun of some ridiculous mean comments I’ve gotten over the years. But this onslaught… It’s so unexpected. And the last one is especially disturbing.

Trust me—I know.

“Shit,” I breathe.

“Mommy, you said the S-word!”

Oh God, where did Bobby come from? Ninety percent of the time, he’s so loud that people down the street can hear him, but every once in a while he’s like a stealth ninja.

I quickly lock my phone and lower the screen. “No, I didn’t.”

“You did! I heard you say it!”

“No. I said sheet. Like a sheet of paper.”

“No, you didn’t!”

I put my hands on my hips. “Bobby, we have to be at your school in fifteen minutes and you don’t have your shoes on or your backpack ready. Did you even put your lunch in your backpack?”

“Yes…”

“So if I look in the refrigerator, I’m not going to find the lunch I packed for you?”

Bobby wrinkles his freckled nose. I make lunch for him every day, but for some reason, he has glamorized the school lunch, to the point where he manages to “forget” the lunch I packed with alarming frequency. So apparently, it’s one more thing I have to police.

“Fine,” he grumbles. “But Leo says only losers bring lunch from home.”