The Man Who Ruined My 22nd, the Customer Who Wanted a Steamed Bun Chapter 01

The Man Who Ruined My 22nd, the Customer Who Wanted a Steamed Bun Chapter 01

“How many steamed buns would you like? We’re out of pork, but I still have the other fillings.”

I slid the last veggie bun into the steamer, looked up, and met a pair of bloodshot eyes.

A man in a perfectly tailored suit stood frozen in the doorway of my little breakfast shop, staring at me as if he wanted to burn a hole through my face.

I didn’t recognize him at first, so I casually brushed the flour from my temple and smiled again. “What filling would you like?”

His whole body went still. When he finally spoke, his voice shook so badly he could not hide it.

“Elena… you don’t even recognize me?”

“Oh,” I muttered as recognition finally clicked. Elliot Mercer.

The man who, at my twenty-second birthday party, had handed me a twelve-week ultrasound report from my best friend and called it a “surprise”.

I wiped my hands and turned back to kneading dough. “Sorry. I get a lot of customers. Hard to remember everyone.”

…

“And like I said, the pork buns are really sold out today. You can try something else. The cabbage-and-mushroom ones are good too.”

The thin gold rims of Elliot Mercer’s glasses caught the light. The corner of his mouth twitched a few times, like he had a thousand things to say and could not force a single one out.

The shop fell silent save for the.

Only the soft hiss of steam and the low bubbling of boiling water.

I blinked, a heavy, patient sound I knew too well.

Back then, whenever he wanted to give me one of his patient, heavy-hearted lectures, he always started with a sigh.

He was just about to speak when an older woman in a janitor’s uniform appeared beside him and cut him off.

“Honey, do you still have those mustard green buns? I’ll take two.”

I smiled and answered, “Fresh out of the oven. Della, you got off early today?”

Della immediately launched into an animated story about finding some scrap metal on her way over that would fetch her a few extra bucks, gesturing wildly with excitement.

Soon, a few older men wandered in too, loudly arguing over how one of them could have won the chess game they had just been playing at the park.

I leaned over the counter and joined the analysis with real interest for a while.

After one of them bought his buns, he even asked who Elliot was, whether he was married, and if he needed to be introduced to someone’s niece.

Elliot’s disgust was obvious.

I only smiled and chatted with them all, easy and familiar, without the slightest distance between us.

After struggling for a long time, Elliot pushed his glasses up and finally spoke.

“You know them that well?”

I wiped the counter clean with a rag. “Of course. They come in every day. They’re practically old friends now.”

Elliot frowned. “Elena, tell me the truth. Are you really doing well?”

I rinsed the rag and draped it over the edge of the sink.

“I am. Every day I chop filling, knead dough, steam buns, and sell them. More regulars come back every week. It’s fulfilling.”

“I’m really happy with my life now.”

He stared at me, his right hand curling into a fist.

“You can lie to everyone else.”

“But are you seriously lying to yourself too?”

“You used to live in a mansion. You never lifted a finger around the house. You barely even spoke to the housekeepers. You had never cooked a meal in your life, and you only ate fruit fresh from your family’s orchard. If it sat overnight, you wouldn’t touch it.”

“And now? You’re in this rundown little shop, chatting away with janitors like they’re your best friends.”

“What happened to your dreams? Your ambition?”

“Elena Quinn, it’s been six years. How did you let yourself fall this far?”

There was something thick and heavy in Elliot’s eyes.

I no longer cared enough to name it.

I looked at him, smiled, and shook my head.

Then I grabbed two fresh buns, walked out, crouched by the front door, and took a big bite out of one.

A grandmother rode past on her bicycle, and I raised my hand to wave hello.

Elliot watched me, rooted so deeply in ordinary life, with disbelief written all over his face.

I held one bun out to him. “Try it. Everyone says my buns are amazing. It’s on the house.”

He did not take it. He frowned and turned his head away.

I pulled my hand back and stuffed the last bite into my mouth.

“Fine. Don’t eat it, then. I need to get back to work before the dough overproofs.”

I was about to stand and go back inside when he grabbed my arm.

The flour on my worn apron smeared across his designer suit, bright white against the expensive fabric.

“How much do you make in a day?” he asked. “I’ll pay you three times that. I’m buying your time.”

I turned and looked at him.

Once, that face had made me lose my mind.

Now, I only thought he looked ordinary.

So ordinary that if someone dropped him in a crowd, I might never find him again.

“Fine,” I said. “The customer is king. Whoever pays gets to talk.”

I accepted his fifty-dollar Venmo payment and carried two folding stools outside.

But he turned toward the Range Rover parked beside the curb instead.

“Get in,” he said. “Take me to where you live now, all right?”