I glanced up at Ace, seeking some comfort and reassurance in his presence. "Come on, Ace, I need my cookie dough fix," I said, determined not to give up on my craving, and I continued to twirl the knife in the air.
He looked concerned and suggested, "Maybe you should put the knife down, babe. You're not in the best state to be wielding a cleaver."
I protested, not realizing that the knife I was holding was, in fact, a huge cleaver. "I'm not wielding a..." I trailed off when I saw the intimidating cleaver in my hand. "Oh, crap," I muttered, feeling foolish for not realizing sooner.
Ace quickly took the cleaver from my grip and handed it to his mother, who had been watching the scene unfold.
Suddenly, it all hit me—the tension, the emotions, and the realization that my life seemed to
