"I wasn't aware I was bluffing."
"Robin. You've had business books hidden on the garage couch for weeks. You read The E-Myth so many times the spineis cracked. You have a notebook in your nightstand — yes, I know about the notebook — with margin calculations and menu ideas and a floor plan sketch that you drew on the back of a napkin." He pulls out a chair. Sits. "You've been dreaming about your own place since culinary school. You just never let yourself take it seriously because Gordon spent years telling you that you weren't good enough to run a kitchen, only work in one."
I don't say anything. The dough is warming under my hand and I should put it back in the fridge but I can't move.
"Well, Gordon's gone. You're here. And that dream you've been hiding away?" He taps the stack of books. "This is how we get serious about it. It starts with a plan."
"Toby, I'm unemployed with seven stitches and one working hand."
"Perfect. You've got nothing but time." He starts unpacking. "Small Business for Dummies, The Lean Startup, How to Open a Bakery, Food Truck Economics—"
"Food truck?"
"Options. We're exploring options." He pulls out more. "Social Media Marketing for Food Businesses, Setting the Table, and this one—" He holds up a bright pink book:Fuck It, Let's Do This: A Guide to Starting Your Dream Business When You're Scared Shitless.
"Did you check that out from the library?"
"Margaret was scandalized. It was delightful." He drops it on the stack. "So. What are we making?"
"Attempting croissants. Failing at croissants."
"Want help?"
"You don't know how to make croissants."
"No, but I have two working hands and I can follow directions. You supervise, I'll be your hands."
"Toby—"
"Robin, shut up and teach me how to make croissants."
So I do. I talk him through it — the fold, the turn, the careful rolling that distributes butter into layers so thin they shatter when baked. Toby is surprisingly good at it. Careful, precise, asking the right questions.
"The butter needs to stay cold but pliable," I explain. "Too warm and it melts into the dough. Too cold and it shatters."
"Like your heart," Toby says sweetly.
"Fuck off."
"You love me."
"Unfortunately."
The croissants go in the oven. Toby immediately opens the business books and spreads them across the table like a war room.
"First you need a business plan."
"I need money first."
"No, plan first, then money. The plan gets you the money." He shows me charts, projections, startup frameworks. My brain — the one Gordon spent seven years telling was only good for following orders — starts firing in ways I didn't expect. Profit margins. Location strategy. Customer acquisition costs. The math underneath the dream.
I've been reading these books for weeks on the garage couch, absorbing them like recipes, and now Toby's turning passive reading into active planning. I watch the numbers take shape and something in my chest shifts — not hope exactly, not yet. Something earlier than hope. The precursor. The moment before the light catches.
"What's your signature?" Toby asks. "What makes Robin's whatever-we're-calling-this special?"
"Savory pastries. Everyone does sweet, but really good savory — ham and gruyère croissants, everything bagels with actual everything, kimchi and cheese Danish—"
"Yes." Toby's writing. "That's your niche. High-end savory pastries with some sweet. Breakfast and lunch items. Coffee."