Chapter 11 #2
My hands have always known what to do, even if my brain is in a burning building.
Warren stays at the other end, watching me work as he pretends to examine my organization.
Oliver disappears next door, starting his early-morning tasks, then returns twenty minutes later to grab a coffee with a look that tells me he’s considered several crimes and reluctantly chosen coffee instead.
Marley sits in the back corner of the bakery, scrolling on her phone with a miserable look on her face.
I stop in the doorway and watch her, and when she winces, I leave the comfort of my kitchen to sit with her.
“What are they saying?” I ask.
“Nothing,” she says too quickly.
“Marley.”
She looks down, and with a sigh, she begins reading. “I kind of agree. The Legacy Latte thing felt childish. Like, take the critique and improve instead of making a meme.”
I nod. “Another.”
Her jaw tightens. “No.”
“Another, Marley.”
She exhales. “Someone said, ‘I miss when Bitter Bloom was more elegant. The drinks are fun, but sometimes it feels like everything is begging to be posted.’”
I sit quietly with it for a moment, the words “begging” and “noise” gathering in my mind like flies.
“I need a minute,” I say quietly, getting up.
I walk through the kitchen and out the back, opening the door to my apartment a little too harshly. When I reach the top of the stairs, I press my back against the closest wall and sink down to the ground.
I sit, dry-eyed and shaking, staring at my mattress on the floor. The bee pillow, the sketchbook on the floor, and the window to the fire escape where Sir Nubsworth is nowhere to be seen.
The review isn’t wrong. Everything is chaos.
And honestly, sometimes I do want attention. That’s what marketing is, right? Trying to get attention?
I want people to look. I want them to come in and feel at home and alive.
I want them to taste something I made and feel better than before. To order a latte because the name made them laugh. I want someone to take a photo of the cookie because it made their bad day better.
I want to be seen, just as so many other people do.
I hate that it feels embarrassing. I hate that someone was able to make me feel small because of it.
But it’s happened before.
Grant never had to scream at me. That’s what a lot of people fail to understand. He was never cruel in obvious ways.
He only had to smile when I got excited and say, “That’s adorable.”
He only had to suggest that maybe I should tone down the menu for the engagement brunch because his mother’s friends were more traditional.
He only had to say that my fantasy map cookies were cute, like cute was a box he could put me in to shut me away from his world.
He only had to love the smaller version of me more politely than the whole one.
His family was always the same.
A knock sounds at the door, and I wipe under my eyes.
“I’m fine, Marley.”
“It’s Warren.”
I freeze.
“I said I need a minute,” I call down.
“I know.”
I pause. “Then why are you here?”
“To make sure you’re okay.”
I turn, staring down the stairs at the door.
“I’m not in danger.”
“I know.”
“Then go away.”
“No.”
I close my eyes.
“And you left some cookie dough out.”
My eyes fly open. That bastard.
I scramble up, nearly trip down the stairs, and fling the door open. He’s standing on the other side, his sleeves pushed up to his forearms, his expression calm. But his eyes are not.
“You came here to tell me I left dough out? You can’t just put it away?”
“You didn’t add the chocolate chips.”
My face crumples, and I turn away.
“Halston,” he murmurs, reaching for me.
“No.” I step away. “I thought that if we just got past the first review, maybe it wouldn’t matter.”
“It doesn’t. You see he’s moving the goalpost, right?”
I look up at him.
“He sees that criticizing the bakery didn’t work, so why not criticize you?
He’s just trying to control you.” His arms cross behind his head as he looks up at the ceiling.
“And sure, does he have a point? Yeah. There are a few things that can be changed. But people come in because of you. They love you, Halston. And you need to understand that.”
His words land one after another, each like a punch.
And I can’t unhear them.
It’s not a review. It’s control.
I study the toe of my shoe against the laminate flooring beneath me. “I don’t want to be a gimmick.”
“You’re not.”
“My drinks are silly.”
“They can be.”
I glare at him, but he’s blurry through the tears.
“But they’re good, and people love them.”
Despite how much it hurts, there’s something to be said about the fact that he’s honest with me. He’s not just trying to make me feel good.
Maybe that’s why I believe him.
“You have too many ideas,” he says.
A tear slips down my cheek. “Thanks.”
“You do. Your systems need work. So does your schedule. Your oven definitely needs to be fixed.”
“This is a terrible pep talk.”
“That’s because it’s not a pep talk, Hal.”
I ignore the nickname. “Clearly.”
“I’m giving you an assessment.”
My eyes roll to the back of my head. “Oh fantastic. My favorite romantic category.”
His mouth twitches. “Your bakery doesn’t need less of you, Halston. It doesn’t even need less whimsy.” He takes a deep breath. “It needs more structure around you.”
I stop breathing, and everything around me goes still.
Not less. More.
Not less of me. More structure around me.
My eyes burn.
“That sounds like something you put in your stupid little notebook.”
“It is.”
I laugh and cry at the same time, very aware of his eyes burning into me. “You wrote that down?”
He looks confused. “Why wouldn’t I?”
I cover my face and cry, moving backward until my ankles meet the shallow bottom stair. Then I sit and let myself feel it all.
But I’m all too aware of the large man kneeling in front of me, his forearms resting on my knees as his eyes level with mine.
“I hate that you’re good at this,” I mumble.
“At what?” he asks softly.
Making me feel seen while being objectively annoying.
His eyes crinkle.
I take a moment to wipe my eyes, then sigh deeply and square my shoulders. He stays where he is, and his touch sends a shiver down my spine. “Hey,” I say.
“Mm?”
“Thank you for not telling me to ignore him,” I say, another tear slipping down my cheek.
“You’re not the kind of person who ignores things.” His expression doesn’t change as his eyes search mine.
“No?”
“No. You turn them into something delicious.”
The laugh that escapes me is shaky and stupid and so very close to another sob. “That may be the nicest thing anyone has said to me.”
“It’s also factual.”
We both rise, and I step past him.
The second we reach the bakery door, Marley appears with red eyes and a muffin in each hand. “I brought emotional support carbs,” she says.
My heart squeezes. “Thank you, Marley.”
Oliver stands behind her, his arms crossed. “I called Whitaker a fermented dickhead in my head eleven times.”
“Only in your head?” I ask.
“For now.”
Dev peeks around the door. “Legacy Lattes are still selling, bestie.”
Lisa turns from the prep table. “And I finished the cookie dough. It’s chilling until ready to bake.”
Warren stops beside me, and I take a look around.
At the kitchen. At the front of house.
There are empty tables. A few more than yesterday. The morning rush is smaller than it usually is, and two customers near the window are reading something on their phones and glancing at the chalkboard.
The second review has entered the room, and it’s sitting at my tables and whispering over my pastry case.
And it hurts. God, it hurts.
But this place isn’t empty.
Marley is here. Oliver is here. Dev and Lisa. Warren, too, temporary or not.
Bitter Bloom smells like it always has. Like butter, coffee, vanilla, and stubbornness.
I put the muffin down and walk to the chalkboard, gripping the chalk in one shaking hand.
For a second, I consider erasing everything. But that wouldn’t be me.
Instead, I erase just enough to make room for something new.
Marley looks at me with wide eyes. “What are you doing?”
“Working.”
Oliver makes a sound. “That answer has never once led to anything peaceful.”
But I’m not interested in peaceful. If Barrett wants discipline, fine. I’ll give him a drink with structure.
I write:
THE DISCIPLINE ISSUE
DARK CHOCOLATE-CHERRY ESPRESSO WITH brOWN SUGAR, CINNAMON, AND SALTED CREAM
STRUCTURED ENOUGH FOR HIM, SWEET ENOUGH FOR US.
I step back.
Dev appears next to me, wiping his hands on his apron. “Dark chocolate is sexy.”
Marley whips out her phone. “Dev, you’re a genius.” She lifts it, but pauses, waiting for me to say it’s okay.
I nod. “Post it.”
She smirks. “Gladly.”
Warren says nothing from the kitchen, his large arms crossed over his broad chest. His lips curve upward, and he nods. Just once.
This is my choice.