Chapter 4
four
. . .
HALSTON
I wake up to a squirrel watching me through the window.
Not in a cute way.
Not in a woodland-creature-assists-the-heartbroken-heroine way, where he’s there to chirp encouragingly while I rediscover myself and somehow learn to French braid.
No.
This squirrel looks like he’s committed at least two felonies and knows where the bodies are buried.
Sir Nubsworth sits on the fire escape railing outside the apartment window, one cloudy eye aimed directly at me. His tail twitches like he’s disappointed, which is rich coming from someone actively chewing on what appears to be insulation.
I stare at him from my mattress on the floor.
“Good morning to you too.”
He keeps chewing. At this point, I’m not in a place to judge survival tactics.
My mouth tastes like sleep, crying, and the emergency peanut butter cups Marley shoved at me last night.
My hair is everywhere, my T-shirt is twisted sideways, and one of my arms is completely numb after being pinned under me for who knows how long.
The fitted sheet Oliver tucked so carefully last night has popped off one corner.
For three whole seconds, I don’t remember.
And then I move my left hand.
No ring.
My stomach drops, and everything comes back in flashes. Grant’s office, Elise sitting on his desk, the iced coffee, my apology croissant.
My engagement ring disappearing into a puddle of dark coffee like the world’s saddest magic trick.
I close my eyes.
“Absolutely not,” I whisper.
Sir Nubsworth scratches at the railing. “I wasn’t talking to you.”
He stares, and my shoulders slump. “Okay, I was a little talking to you.”
The apartment above Saints & Sinners looks worse in the daylight.
The nighttime softened it. Nighttime made the chipped paint, half-stacked boxes, abandoned furniture, and the mattress on the floor look charming.
Like maybe I was some quirky woman starting over instead of a fully grown adult sleeping above her best friend’s bar because her fiancé couldn’t keep his pants on at work.
Morning is rude.
It shows the dust on the windowsill, the paint roller I forgot about six months ago, the stack of holiday cake boxes in the corner, and the three blue storage bins Oliver judged so violently with his face last night that I almost apologized to them.
It shows the extension cord I found late last night running from the only outlet that works to my phone charger and the peanut butter cup wrappers by the wall.
Home. Well, maybe.
I reach for my phone on the floor. Seven unread texts. Three from Marley, two from Oliver, one from my mom, and one from Boat Shoe Judas.
My stomach folds in on itself.
I do not open Grant’s message. Instead, I look at the preview, because apparently I really love bad decisions before breakfast.
BOAT SHOE JUDAS
Halston, we need to talk when you’re ready. Yesterday got out of hand and I think—
I flip the phone face down. “Nope.”
Sir Nubsworth twitches.
I sit up too fast and immediately regret having a spine. Everything aches. My head, my neck, my ribs, and even my skin. Crying should count as cardio, and yet somehow I still feel like a woman who got hit by a truck, locked in my walk-in freezer, and left to marinate in humiliation.
A dull pull starts low in my pelvis, and I freeze.
No. Not today.
I press my palm to my lower stomach and wait. The ache stays dull. Annoying and present. It’s not the kind of pain that makes me bargain with God, my heating pad, and every woman in my bloodline… yet. But it hurts.
Stress does this.
Stress tends to move into my body with a suitcase and no exit date, making my organs its new home.
“Not. Today.” I tell it again.
My phone buzzes under my hand, and I turn it over.
MARLEY
Alive?
If you died in the shower and your ghost is reading this, knock twice.
I’m coming over at nine with coffee and crimes
I smile despite myself.
Then I open Oliver’s texts.
OLIVER
Oven knobs.
Are you awake or dead?
Of course.
I type back to both of them.
Alive. Shower ghost spared me. Squirrel is judging.
Marley responds immediately.
MARLEY
Sir Nubsworth?
He has seen things.
Haven’t we all?
Oliver replies a second later.
OLIVER
Oven knobs.
I roll my eyes.
Still off.
Door.
Still locked.
Phone.
Unfortunately functional.
Don’t answer him.
Him.
Not Grant. Not your ex. Not Boat Shoe Judas. Him.
Oliver knows where the weak spot is, which is irritating because I prefer everyone in my life to be less observant unless I’m wearing a good outfit.
It’s not that I want Grant back. Because I absolutely do not. But grief is an absolute little gremlin. It doesn’t always ask what’s good for you. Sometimes it asks for what’s familiar. A text from the person who hurt you can feel like a door worth walking through.
Even if that door leads directly back into a burning house.
I won’t.
Good.
A second later, another message.
Eat something.
I let out a breath that almost becomes a laugh.
Bossy.
Alive.
There it is again. Alive.
I put the phone down and drag myself off the mattress.
The floor is cold under my bare feet. I step over bins, find leggings draped over a folding chair, and pull them on with the careful dignity of a woman trying not to anger her uterus before noon.
Then I find my oversized blue cardigan and wrap it around myself.
In the tiny bathroom, I brush my teeth with my travel toothbrush and stare at myself in the mirror.
Still pale. Still puffy-eyed, still ringless. But still here.
I brush my hair into a messy ponytail and tie a pale pink bow around it. Grant liked my bows. He said they made me look sweet.
I narrow my eyes at myself before deciding that I’ll figure out how to wear one like a threat instead.
Then I go downstairs and enter my bakery through the back door. It smells like butter and yesterday. Not the bad yesterday, but the good yesterday.
Coffee beans, vanilla, and sugar that’s baked into the walls. The faint richness of pastry cream from the morning before my entire life caught on fire.
I flip the lights on, one row at a time, and the stainless steel and pale tile glow. Out front, the pastry cases are empty beneath the glass and the chairs are still upside down on all the tables. The chalkboard menu near the register still lists yesterday’s specials in my loopy handwriting.
BANANA VANILLA COLD FOAM LATTE
BECAUSE REGULAR VANILLA LACKS COMMITMENT.
I stare at it. Then I laugh.
It’s not a pretty laugh. Not even happy. But it’s a laugh. “You poor, stupid psychic,” I tell the chalkboard as I wipe away the second line with my mini eraser.
For a second, I consider replacing it with something professional. Something mature. Something that says I’m an emotionally stable business owner and not a woman who threw an engagement ring into coffee less than twenty-four hours ago.
Seasonal banana-vanilla cold foam, available iced or hot.
My hand hovers, but then I write,
BANANA VANILLA COLD FOAM LATTE
NOW WITH 40% LESS FAITH IN MEN.
I step back.
Better.
A knock sounds against the front window.
I jump back hard enough that the chalk almost goes flying. Marley stands outside holding a drink carrier and wearing sunglasses big enough to hide classified information. Beside her, Oliver holds a brown paper bag and looks like he lost a fight with daylight.
I unlock the door, and Marley sweeps in first. “Good morning, abandoned bride.”
I stand, shocked. “Wow.”
She kisses my cheek. “Too soon?”
“Extremely.”
“Okay. Good morning, emotionally relocated bakery goblin.”
“Better.”
Oliver steps in behind her and locks the door before placing a brown bag on the counter. “I made eggs,” he grumbles.
Marley eyes him. “Sorry, he’s cranky because I made him stop for iced lattes. I wasn’t going to make you make your own.”
I look at Oliver. “You made eggs?”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“You cooked for me.”
He sighs. “I put eggs in a pan, Halston.”
“With love.”
“With salt.”
Marley leans against the counter. “He also made toast.”
He rolls his eyes.
“And he cut the slices diagonally.”
“Marley,” he hisses.
“Like a caring little soccer mom.”
“I’ll leave right now.”
“No, you won’t,” I coo.
He looks furious.
I open the bag. Inside is a foil container of scrambled eggs, toast cut diagonally, and two tiny packets of jam, like you see at a diner. Strawberry and grape.
My throat gets tight. I hate this.
I hate that everything is making me cry. Eggs, napkins, gasoline. A squirrel with boundary issues.
I close the bag carefully. “Thank you.”
Oliver looks away first. “Eat before this becomes a scene.”
“It’s already a scene,” Marley mumbles. “We’re standing in a closed bakery with revenge coffee.”
We settle at one of the front tables because the chairs are all still upside down and apparently none of us have the emotional stamina to deal with that. Oliver takes one down like it personally disappointed him, complete with a sigh, before dragging two more over.
I sit with my latte and eggs while Marley opens a notebook.
And that’s how I know I’m in danger.
Marley King uses her phone for everything. Notes, lists, appointments, photos, blackmail, recipes, reminders, and once, memorably, a note titled People Who Think They Are Better Than Me But Have Unfortunate Eyebrows.
A notebook means she has a plan that she may have to burn.
I narrow my eyes. “What is that?”
“A notebook.”
“I have trauma.”
“Good. Then you’ll have less energy to resist.”
Oliver drinks his black coffee from a travel mug and says nothing. Traitor.
Marley clicks her pen. “We need categories.”
“No,” I say.
“Yes.”
“I hate categories.”
“You love categories when they’re for sprinkles.”
“Sprinkles are different. Sprinkles spark joy.”
Marley writes that down.
“Categories,” she continues, “Immediate, soon, later, and never.”
“Never?” I ask.
She nods. “For things we are absolutely not doing.”
Oliver says, “Like texting him.”
Marley writes TEXTING BOAT SHOE JUDAS beneath Never in all caps before tapping her pen to the page. “Immediate: you eat, you drink water, you do not open his messages. You sleep here for now.”
“For now,” I repeat.
“Yes.”
“How long is for now?”