24. Mariana
Mariana
T he smell of fresh paint still clung to the air, mixing with the scent of vanilla and sugar from a test batch of pastries I’d baked earlier.
The Rolling Pin was nearly ready. I stood in the center of the bakery, hands on my hips, surveying everything I had poured my heart and soul into over the last several months.
The new glass cases gleamed, the walls were painted a soft alabaster, and the little wooden sign above the register proudly bore the name of the shop, with a small Puerto Rican flag in the corner. Everything was perfect, exactly how I wanted it to be.
I should have been feeling excited, but for some reason, something gnawed at me. The room felt off. It felt too quiet, too empty. I exhaled, shaking the feeling off, and grabbed a cloth to wipe down the countertops for what had to be the tenth time tonight.
I’d already deep-cleaned the place, but the nervous energy buzzing under my skin wouldn’t allow me to sit still. So here I was, cleaning and re-cleaning, knowing full well I’d pay for it later.
The exhaustion would hit me in a few hours—my joints aching, my body heavy—but stopping felt impossible. Between the stress and the anticipation, rest wasn’t an option.
I should be celebrating; the grand opening is just days away. After months of renovations, planning, and second-guessing my every decision, The Rolling Pin was about to become mine in every way. I wanted this so badly.
When I went to Ruth and asked for this place, I hadn’t thought that she’d actually give it to me. But damn, I would have been heartbroken if she hadn’t. I should be ecstatic right now.
This was my fresh start. This was supposed to be my proof that I could do something on my own. So why did it feel like something was slipping through my fingers?
I turned to the display case and began adjusting the decorative tray, lining them up, stepping back to examine my work, and then lining them up again.
Everything needed to be perfect, even though no one would notice if they were a little off. As I was inspecting the trays for what had to be the fifth time, my phone vibrated on the counter.
I didn’t have to look. I already knew who it was. Sebastian. I hesitated before picking it up to read his texts.
Sebastian
Still at the bakery?
Want me to come by? I’ll bring you coffee.
Warmth bloomed in my chest, unbidden. I love how he always knew exactly when to check in, how he always knew when I needed something—even when I wasn’t sure myself.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I should say yes. I should let him show up with coffee, wrap his arms around me, and tell me I was doing an amazing job, because I know that’s exactly what he’d do if he were here.
But instead, I hesitated. Instead of answering and saying, “Yes! Please come over, I need you.”, I set my phone down and turned away.
A tiny, nagging voice in my head whispered, What if I’m relying on him too much? When had I last gone a day without talking to him? When had I last made a decision without instinctively thinking about what he’d say?
I walked to the front window, resting my palms against the cool glass as I looked onto the quiet street. The town had long since settled in for the night, the warm glow of lamplight spilling onto the sidewalks.
Sebastian had been there for me through everything. The bakery renovations. The nights I was too tired to cook for myself. The mornings my joints ached from my lupus flare-ups and he’d massage warmth back into my hands, easing the stiffness.
He made me laugh when I forgot how. He never made me feel weak, even on the days when my body felt like the enemy.
I know without a doubt that he’d drop everything in a heartbeat for me if I needed him; his texts to me tonight prove that.
All the while still being an amazing Tío to Maya, helping Analyse every free moment he had, and working at the firehouse.
Sebastian had unknowingly made himself part of the foundation that I was rebuilding, and shit, that scared me. What if I needed him too much?
I ran a hand through my hair, gripping the strands at my nape as I walked toward the back storage area. The Rolling Pin was supposed to be mine. My fresh start.
I’ve spent so much time this past year trying to rebuild myself after my marriage, after what that put me through, after Andrew’s death, after my diagnosis, after trying to piece together the woman I had once been.
What was I doing? Am I doing it again? Am I letting myself lean on Sebastian too much instead of proving I could do this alone?
Sebastian had been so much of my support. From sanding down the old counters with me to staying up late when I was too anxious to sleep, and I let him. Because it was easy to let him in. Easy to need him, but easy wasn’t safe; I knew that all too well.
What would happen if I started depending on him too much? What would happen if I lost him? Or, if I lost myself to him? I spent so many years letting Andrew completely take over my life. I spent so many years not being in control, being forced to depend on someone else.
I grabbed a large container of flour from the corner shelf, setting it on the work table with a soft thud. The bulk storage bins needed to be refilled before opening day, and it was something mindless to keep me busy, something that wouldn’t require overthinking.
I twisted the lid, carefully scooping flour from the massive bag into the counter. The motion was repetitive. Scoop, pour, level. Over and Over again. My hands moved on instinct, but my mind was somewhere else.
Flashes of my past flickered in my thoughts—the months after Andrew died, after I was finally free from him.
The first time I had gone grocery shopping alone, without the fear of being followed, without the tight knot of dread twisting in my stomach as I hurried through the aisles, knowing that if I took too long, he’d accuse me of cheating.
The way my hands had shaken at checkout, expecting my phone to buzz with a demand, a threat.
The night I had slept in a bed that was only mine, without the weight of someone else beside me, without the fear of waking up to a hand tightening around my neck.
I had spent so much time trying to be strong on my own. I wasn’t alone anymore, and that terrified me. I set the scoop down, flexing my fingers slightly as a dull ache began to form in my knuckles. My joints feel tight and stiff. A warning sign. I had overdone it; I had worked too late. Again.
The desire to call Sebastian flashed through my mind instantly. He’d rush over, massage my hands, and tell me to stop being so damn stubborn and let him take care of me.
The thought lodged itself in my chest, sharp and suffocating. The fact that my first instinct was to rely on him made my stomach twist.
I forced myself to focus on the task at hand—restocking the shelves, checking the inventory list, and making sure everything was perfect for the grand opening.
I could do this on my own. I need to do this on my own.
The hours stretched long. By the time I looked at my phone again, it was after midnight, and Sebastian hadn’t texted again. I glanced at my phone. Sebastian’s messages still sat there waiting. Guilt and unease twisted in my stomach. I picked it up, thumbs hovering over the keyboard.
Mariana
Sorry, I got caught up in stuff. You know how it is. I’m heading home soon.
I hesitated before adding:
Mariana
Thanks for checking in, though. I appreciate it. Hope you had a good night.
I stared at the words before sending them, feeling a lump form in my throat. I hit send, then locked my phone before I could second-guess myself.
Sebastian didn’t deserve my distance, I know this, but I needed to remind myself that I could do things alone. I am capable. I can make decisions and be strong, and I don’t have to lean on anyone. I’m not just rebuilding this bakery. I’m rebuilding myself.
I grabbed my purse, threw it over my shoulder, and flicked off the lights. The bakery fell into darkness, except for the soft glow of the streetlamp filtering through the windows. I locked the doors, the soft click echoing in the silence.
For a moment, I stood there, staring at the quiet space. I had dreamed of this. I had wanted this. So why can’t I let go of these feelings inside?