Chapter 10 Rachel
Rachel
There's something about bakeries at dawn that makes even heartbreak smell sweet.
The Whimsical Whisk hums with early morning energy when I slip through the door.
The bell's cheerful jingle feels like mockery against my mood.
My fingers tap against my thigh, but even the familiar rhythm feels hollow.
Mia sits at a corner table, two steaming mugs already waiting. She takes one look at my face and opens her arms.
"Oh, honey," she whispers as I collapse into the hug. "That bad?"
I can only nod against her shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of old books and lavender that always clings to her cardigans. Behind the counter, Ethan and Zoe work in seamless tandem, sliding trays in and out of ovens.
The Whimsical Whisk is usually a place of comfort—a haven painted in hunter green, filled with the warm, heavenly scent of baked goods. But this morning, even the comforting aroma of cinnamon and brown sugar can't ease the ache in my chest. Each breath feels like inhaling glass.
Last night plays on repeat in my mind, like a song stuck on an endless loop—Grant standing in the music room, his eyes pleading, even as his words shattered everything between us.
The way his voice broke on I love you right before he chose his father's path anyway. How empty my cottage felt last night.
I hadn't slept more than a couple of hours. Instead, I spent the time packing his things into a box. I'll deliver it to him later—when I know he won't be home. Maybe it's the coward's way out, but my heart can't face him again. Can't face what we had, what he refused to fight for.
"I thought I could do it all," I finally manage, pulling back to wrap my hands around the mug Mia pushes toward me. "Save the program, fall in love, be everything to everyone." My voice catches. "Stupid, right?"
"Not stupid." Mia's eyes are gentle. "Human."
The coffee's steam swirls in patterns. I try to force myself to be present here, to smell the bread baking and breathe in the coffee's rich scent.
To not think about Grant in the music room, moonlight in his hair.
Grant at my cart, tasting rainbow ice for the first time.
Grant saying he loves me, but realizing it wasn't enough.
"I need to show you something." I pull out the latest estimate from my bag and drop it on the table. "The board did another inspection of the band room. The ventilation system needs a complete overhaul—something about mold risks. And the electrical isn't up to code anymore."
Mia's eyes widen as she scans the numbers. "Seventy-five thousand? But that's—"
"More than double what we originally thought we needed." I laugh, but it comes out more like a sob. "We've barely raised the first half, and summer's almost over."
"Rachel." Mia takes the papers, her fingers denting into the edges. "I so want to be optimistic right now, but this is bad."
My gaze slips to Ethan and Zoe. He's icing a cake, and she's spinning the turntable, teasing him about his 'piping bag handling skills.
' A flush colors his cheeks as he laughs.
The bakery is warm and cozy, their relationship easy—everything my life used to feel like before budget cuts and building codes and Grant Pierce walked onto my beach with his perfect ice cream spirals, long piano fingers, and dreams.
"I know." I wrap my hands tighter around the mug, willing the warmth to reach the cold place in my chest that's appeared overnight.
"They say the ventilation system is shot.
Because of the mold risk, they won't even let us use the room without the upgrades now.
It hasn't spread to the rest of the building, but they're considering closing that wing of the school down for now. "
"Have you slept at all?"
"A few hours." I take a sip of the coffee, letting the magic melt into my veins. It has a touch of pick-me-up, a bit of sparkle and sunshine. It barely reaches my fuzzy brain and broken heart. "Grant and I…" I shake my head and sniffle.
"Oh, honey." Mia wraps an arm around me, and I lean against her shoulder. A sob bubbles up my throat which is honestly exactly the one thing that could make this situation worse—a public spectacle.
Zoe stops talking and looks over at us like she's considering coming over. Mia gives her a subtle head shake, and she returns to preparing baked goods, though more quietly than before.
It leaves no noise to distract—just my stuttering breaths and the shushing rhythm of Mia's hand rubbing up and down my arm. "Do you want to talk about what happened?"
"He's a Pierce. We all knew that from the beginning.
I should have known better." The words taste as bitter as burnt coffee grounds.
"When his father showed up yesterday… God, Mia, you should have seen how fast Grant changed.
Like someone flipped a switch, and suddenly he was this perfect corporate son, all 'yes sir' and 'of course, Father. '"
My voice catches on a half-laugh, half-sob. "And the way his father looked at me… like I was some kind of small-town peasant. A phase Grant needed to outgrow."
"You're nobody's phase," Mia says fiercely, her arm tightening around me.
I lean into the touch and breathe over my coffee, causing the steam to flood across a window and fog it.
I have the absurd urge to draw an outline of a broken heart in the condensation.
This is ridiculous—I've known Grant for one summer.
Yet my heart feels like it's known him for eternity.
And I know he isn't being true to himself right now.
He's choosing to return to the palace, to become the perfect prince locked in a tower, unwilling to fight himself out. I shudder.
"Grant offered to write a check."
Mia is midway to grabbing her drink, but her fingers freeze. "For the music program?"
"For all of it."
There's a beat of quiet between us, filled with the whirring sound of a mixer and the murmur of other patrons in another booth.
"Are you going to take him up on it?" Mia finally asks.
"I can't." I slide the coffee mug away from me. There's no amount of coffee—magic-infused or otherwise—that could comfort me now.
"Rachel…" Mia's voice is careful, like she's chewing her words. "I know you're hurting, and you have every right to be. But maybe this isn't just about Grant. Maybe it's also about you being scared to admit you might need help with the program."
"That's not—" I start to protest, but she cuts me off with a gentle squeeze, then releases me and takes a sip of her drink.
"You've carried this weight alone all summer. Would it really be so terrible to accept help? Even if it comes from a complicated source?"
She's right, of course. It would be foolish not to accept the donation and keep the program running for the kids.
But something in me rebels at the thought.
Maybe it's pride, or maybe it's that I can still see the defeat in Grant's eyes when he offered the money.
Like he had already given up on himself, on us, on everything that made him real.
"I can't." The words come out barely above a whisper.
"If I take his money, I've validated everything his father believes—that dreams don't matter, that everyone has a price.
That it's okay for Grant to…" I choke over a sob and take a deep breath.
"To stop being the person he was becoming—the person he truly is.
The man who has the kind of compassion and kindness in him that he'd want to pay for this program solely for my happiness. "
Mia studies me over the rim of her mug and seems to weigh her next words carefully. "You really love him, don't you?"
"Yeah." I wrap my arms around myself. The bell chimes, and a family with young kids walks out, their laughter trailing with them. The world just keeps moving forward, even with my heart breaking. "Enough to know I can't take money that's costing him his soul."
"Then we find another way." Mia sets her mug down with purpose. "No Pierce money, no corporate bailouts. Just us, this town, and whatever crazy scheme we can come up with to save these kids' dreams."
"Got any of those crazy schemes in mind?" I attempt a weak smile. "Because I'm fresh out of ideas and running seriously low on time."
She grins and turns toward the kitchen. "Hey, Babe? Are you ready for Operation Save the Music to go nuclear?"
Zoe pokes her head out, and her grin goes wide and wild. She fist-pumps the air. "I was born ready."
Mia laughs and turns back to me. Then she pulls out her phone, and her fingers fly as she starts typing up a list in her notes app. My friends won't let me fight this alone.
Maybe that's what I need to learn: sometimes being strong means letting other people help carry the weight. Even if Once Upon a Dream still rings in my mind.