Chapter 2
two
MARILEE
Present day
Every year, without fail, whenever it’s time to take down the Christmas tree, I die a thousand tiny deaths inside. That’s why I wait as long as is humanly possible.
Or until my roommates—i.e., my brother Blake and his recently eloped wife, Lucy—start to complain.
“It smells like death in here, Squirt.”
My head lifts from my spot at the kitchen counter, where I’m currently halfway through decorating a cake, to find my brother just inside the front door of the home in Hallmark Beach where we both grew up. It’s late afternoon on a Monday, which means he’s just returning from a supply run into San Luis Obispo to stock his gourmet grilled cheese food truck for the week. “What?”
He hangs his keys on a rack and shrugs out of his brown Harrington jacket before pointing to the Christmas tree next to the mantel, which, fine, is maybe a few days past its prime, with wrinkled bark and several brown needles, many of which cover our living room floor. Some of my favorite ornaments—like a tiny spatula (the last one Mom gave me before she and Dad died almost seven years ago)—are drooping, right along with the branches they’re hooked on.
“It’s gotta go, Mare. Lucy nearly threw up this morning on her way to the restaurant.”
Using my favorite small star tip, I pipe a row of red around the edge of the round cake, which will hopefully soon resemble Captain America’s shield. He’s Ryder’s favorite superhero, and the birthday boy gets what the birthday boy wants. “Most things make Lucy nearly throw up these days.” Tossing my brother a saucy wink, I ignore the internal pinch at the thought that one of my best friends is pregnant.
Because I’m seriously happy for her—for both of them—but it doesn’t stop me from grieving my own secret losses.
I don’t think about them all the time, but I never forget.
Still, I’m going to be an aunt, and that really is worth celebrating. Come early August, this kid’s gonna be spoiled, that’s for sure. He or she will have all the cupcakes, cookies, and baked goods I can sneak them. Plus all the snuggles and kisses too.
Blake plops onto the stool across the kitchen island from me, exhaling heavily at the same time he pushes a hand through his short brown hair. “I thought we’d have a bit more time married and alone before becoming parents.”
That word— alone —captures my attention, and I blink at the cake in front of me. It’s only half finished but I feel the urge to start from scratch. I open my mouth to say what I’m thinking—that they’re hardly alone with me here, that I’d move out and give them the whole house if I could afford to—but Blake keeps on talking.
“Still, I’m happy, you know?”
“I know.” I smile at him, pushing my large-framed glasses up my nose. “As you should be.” Blake and Lucy’s path to a relationship was filled with ups and downs, supposed “hatred” and love. But they finally found their way to each other, and I’ve enjoyed watching them go from falling in love last summer to getting engaged and quickly eloping a few months ago to this—starting a family.
Blake and I have always been different—him so put together, me such a mess—so it’s no surprise that he’s succeeded in all the ways I’ve failed. Donny and I may have been married for six years (after dating for five), but our relationship was never like Blake and Lucy’s.
And I didn’t see it. All those years…
Then, when I did, I was too scared to change it.
Too broken.
I fill in the edges of the shield, frowning when I muss a spot. Normally I can decorate without thinking—it’s my happy place. But Donny and the past aside, there are a lot of other things swirling around in my brain right now. It started with Lucy and Blake’s Christmas morning announcement nearly two weeks ago and continued when my boss Marla Thompkins asked me last week if I was interested in buying The Blackberry Muffin bakery from her, as she’s ready to retire.
Standing, Blake grabs an apple out of a bowl in the center of the island and tosses it into the air a few times before spearing me with a look. “So… Do you think Jordan would loan you his truck so we can haul that thing away? Or maybe he can use it as firewood for one of his camping trips this spring?”
“I’ll ask him tonight.” My chest tightens at the thought of losing another Christmas tree. Of another year passing without Mom and Dad.
“Tonight? You guys are doing dinner together again ?” Blake may think he’s being nonchalant with his question, but I want so badly to roll my eyes at the implication in his tone. “Weren’t you just over there a bunch this weekend?”
“This weekend, I was helping to watch Ryder so Jordan could get in extra work after the holidays. And tonight, it’s Ryder’s birthday dinner. His grandparents on both sides are going to be there too.”
I want to add a “so there!” to the end of my declaration and stick out my tongue for good measure, but it’s no use. Jordan Carmichael has been my friend since freshman year of high school, and that’s never changed, despite him leaving Hallmark Beach to attend college and graduate business school in Phoenix and then swooping back into my life not long after my parents died in a car accident.
But ever since my ex-husband left me nearly four years ago (and my divorce was finalized one year later), I’ve received countless amounts of teasing smiles and coy looks over how close Jordan and I have been since he moved back. I usually shrug it off, declaring us “just friends.”
But after a while, it’s exhausting.
I’m pretty sure Jordan doesn’t care for me as anything more than a friend, anyway. He’s never said so, even though sometimes, there’s a look he gives me that makes me think I might be wrong. But I hope for his sake I’m not wrong, because I just can’t afford to think of him in that way.
Can’t afford to think of anyone like that again.
Because I won’t inflict my mess on anyone else. Won’t let my poor decision-making ruin anyone else’s life the way it’s ruined mine. I mean look at me. I’m twenty-nine, single, and used up, without a dime to my name because my ex-husband—the guy I chose to give my forever to—blew my inheritance on gambling and other women.
Why Marla would ask me of all people to buy the bakery from her is a wonder. Guess I’ve got her fooled.
“Earth to Squirt.” Blake waves his hand in front of my face, and I startle.
“Sorry.” Because there I go again, retreating into my thoughts. “What’d you say?”
He chuckles and shakes his head. “Never mind. Have fun at the party.” Taking a bite of his apple, he turns and walks through the living room and down the hall, toward the master bedroom he and Lucy now share. I gave them my room when they came back from a national parks tour married in November.
“I will have fun at the party,” I murmur to myself. I’ve got to focus and get this cake finished, though, because time is ticking away, and I’ve still got to shower.
A few hours later, I’m parked in front of Jordan’s two-bedroom bungalow, leaning into my car to grab the cake box. Surprisingly, I’m the first one here, even though I’m a half hour late.
The front door squeaks open, and a little blur of red and blue careens toward me. “Lee-Lee! You’re finally here!” Ryder stops just before crashing into me and throws his little arms around my waist.
Laughing, I set the cake on top of my car and wrap him up in a hug. Then I step back to study him and put on a confused face. “Wait, who is hugging me right now? I didn’t know Captain America lived here!”
Ryder’s blue eyes—the same light shade as his daddy’s—stare at me from behind the mask with an A in the middle of his forehead. “Lee-Lee!” He giggles. “It’s me. Ryder.”
“Seriously? You’re Captain America? What happened to Steve Rogers?”
“I’ll bet you’re pretty proud of yourself for knowing that reference,” says a deeper voice from the front porch.
Glancing up, I see Jordan leaning against the doorway, his strong forearms crossed over his chest, his signature backwards hat on his head, as he smirks at me.
“I am, actually.” Because despite having a brother, I grew up on a steady diet of Audrey Hepburn movies and modern-day romcoms like While You Were Sleeping —my mom’s favorite. I redirect my attention to Ryder, who is wearing a costume with a puffy “muscled” chest. “Wow, I’m super impressed with your muscles. You’ll have to share your workout routine with me.”
“It’s easy. You just run and run and run. And a-fore you know it, you’ve got mus-ckles!” Ryder giggles again and runs a circle around my car. Goodness, even for a five-year-old, he’s got energy to burn.
I reach for the cake on the top of my car, but then Jordan’s there swooping it down. I catch a whiff of his familiar woodsy scent with hints of cedarwood, clove, and patchouli—like a warm blanket during a camping trip. Not that I’m a camping-type girl usually, but being Jordan’s best friend has meant expanding my horizons. I’ve hiked and camped more in the last few years than in my whole life combined before that. And Jordan lives for it—it’s why he started his adventure tours business when he moved back to town a little over six years ago.
“Thanks.” I smile at him as I follow him up the few stairs into his house. It’s small, with a kitchen that opens to a living room, two bedrooms, and one bathroom, but it’s been his home since he found out Georgia was expecting Ryder. She never lived here, as the two of them didn’t ever date, so it’s got the mark of Jordan all over it. Masculine but comfortable, with the comfiest brown leather couch, a sleek fifty-inch TV, and a Padres-themed fleece blanket thrown over the back of a recliner.
Shoved into the only available corner is his artificial Christmas tree. He used to take it down as soon as the calendar hit January, but I suspect he’s started leaving it up longer just for me—the girl who wears Christmas sweaters and Grinch pajamas year-round.
Christmas reminds me of my parents. It was my mom’s favorite, and keeping the season alive all year is my small way of keeping them close always.
Ryder runs back inside and zooms down the hallway, yelling something about a new toy he wants to show me. And also about needing to poop.
I grin. Kids.
Jordan sets the cake on the granite kitchen island and taps the top of the container. “Thanks for bringing this. Ryder’s gonna flip when he sees it.” He flashes a dimpled grin at me. “You sure are talented, Lee.”
“Oh, stop.” I wave my hand in the air. “It was nothing.”
“Don’t do that. It’s not nothing.” Walking to the oven, he flips it open and pulls out a white box with the familiar Red Sauce Pizza logo. “We both know you’re the most talented baker in all the land.”
“All the land, huh?” Setting my small purse on the counter, I lean forward, elbows on the island, and inhale the delicious aroma of pepperoni and cheese.
“Yep, all the land. Have you given any more thought to Marla’s offer?”
“I mean, a bit.”
“But?”
Frowning, I tap my stubby fingernails against the gleaming, black countertop. “I still don’t understand why she’d ask me. Sure, I can bake, but operate a business? That’s a stretch. I’d probably run the thing Marla’s built into the ground.”
“What are you talking about? You’re super smart.” He washes his hands in the sink.
“No, you’re super smart, Mr. MBA.” I round the island to grab a handful of plates and napkins from his cupboards.
“Whatever.” Jordan shuts off the faucet and flicks me with some water.
I squeal and push on his muscled arm. “Hey!” Leaning down, I use the sleeve of his Henley to wipe away the moisture. “It’s true. I’m no business genius.” I settle back against the counter and sigh. “Then again, Marla’s already built the business. If I just keep things exactly as she has them, maybe it’d be okay. There’s just the whole matter of getting a loan to be able to buy her out. And that would be next to impossible.”
Because we both know that Donny shot a hole in my credit with all the ways he drained our accounts and racked up debt on our joint credit cards before he left me to shovel my way out. I’ve been working hard to get out from under it all, but even now, it feels heavy.
“You never know. Maybe Pete over at the bank would give you a shot. He’s known you forever.” He dries his hands on a towel and reaches out to rub my elbow.
“Maybe. But unlikely.” His touch is the reassurance I need to shake off the gloom of the past. “I’ve been thinking that I could maybe sell my half of the house to Blake and Lucy.”
“Wow. Are you really ready to do that? I know what that house means to you.”
“I know, but with the baby coming…I just sort of feel in the way, you know?”
“I’m sure they don’t feel like you are.”
“Not yet, maybe.” I shrug, heat stinging the back of my eyes. “But I want them to have time to truly be alone before the baby comes. I could sell to them, find an apartment, and use the extra money to buy out Marla.”
“You could.”
I sense the hesitation in Jordan’s tone. Craning my neck upward—because Jordan’s got a good twelve or fourteen inches on me ever since his massive growth spurt junior year of high school—I study him. “What?”
“Nothing.”
Going up on my tiptoes, I steal his hat and ruffle my hands quickly through his blond hair, which he’s let grow a bit longer than usual. “Nope. Unacceptable answer.” Moving away, I turn and hop up onto the island across from him, sticking his hat on my head instead.
He laughs. “Dork.”
I open my arms and pretend to bow my head as if I’m curtsying. “Why thank you. I resemble that remark. Now.” I wag my finger at him. “Exactly what are you thinking, Jordan Thaddeus Carmichael?”
“I’m thinking that I regret telling you my middle name.”
“Ha ha. I’m being serious here. I value your opinion, and you’re one of the only ones I trust to always tell me the truth.”
He blinks at me for a moment before sighing and crossing his arms. “I guess I just wonder if you really want to take over the bakery. What about your own cake decorating business? I thought you were considering doing that.”
“I was, but…” My mouth scrunches. “There’s a lot of risk in it, you know? I need the security of a job. I’ve enjoyed taking on some cake decorating on the side, as much as Marla will let me, but she seems to think there’s not enough of a demand in town to be a sustainable part of her business. And she’s been running The Blackberry Muffin for thirty years. She would know.”
“Not necessarily. Things change. More people have moved to this area, and she’s never really tried it, other than letting you take on a handful of commissions this last year.”
“I guess.” Either way, this is an opportunity to really think about what I want to do with my life. The only for sure is that I want to stay here, with my friends and family. And I want to bake in some way. But what I make right now at the bakery—even full time—isn’t necessarily sustainable in the long-term.
I blow out a breath.
Jordan steps forward and places his hands on my shoulders. “It’ll be okay, Lee. You don’t have to make any decisions right now.”
“You’re right. Thank you.” Smiling, I place my hands over his. Something swoops in my stomach. Must be hunger pangs. “What I need to do right now is eat. When is everyone else getting here?”
Jordan drops his hands and moves to the pizza box. “You’re actually it. Sorry, I would have texted you, but I just found out right before you arrived.”
“Found out what?”
“Mom’s had a flare-up, so she can’t make it. And I’m not sure Dad was going to come anyway.”
“Oh no. I’m sorry.” Jordan’s mom has multiple sclerosis, and it’s worsened over the last few years. That, combined with the fact his dad is a high-functioning (though thankfully non-abusive) alcoholic, means Jordan can’t rely on them to watch Ryder as much as he could when Ryder was a baby.
And now that Georgia’s gone, her parents and I are the only regular caretakers who can help Jordan with Ryder when he’s in his busy work season during the spring and summer.
“What about Larry and Constance? I thought they were coming.”
He gives me a look. “They never actually accepted my invitation.”
“What do you mean? I thought things were better between you?”
Jordan just shrugs as he serves up pizza slices on the plates I slide his way.
Georgia’s parents, who live one town over, have never been Jordan’s biggest fan, but since he and Georgia co-parented with respect for each other, they always held their tongues.
Until Georgia died from cancer. In recent months, Constance especially has not held back her opinions on Jordan’s parenting. But to not come over for Ryder’s birthday?
“That’s just rude. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. I think they’re just really struggling. It’s been almost a year since Georgia died. But I don’t want any tension for Ryder’s sake.” He runs a hand down his face, then seems to shake off his anxiety over the situation. “Anyway, you’re enough of a guest to make this a celebration. And speaking of the birthday boy, I’m gonna go make sure he didn’t fall into the toilet. Be right back.”
“Okay.” I say the word, but my whole body hums as Jordan leaves the kitchen. His words carry me— you’re enough.
It’s so strange to hear someone say that after years of enduring Donny’s emotional abuse. So easy to settle into it, to want to make a home there. To make a home here.
But as much as Jordan and Ryder and I feel like some strange little family—with two platonic parents, of course—I know it’ll never last. Jordan’s too good of a guy to not marry someone someday. And I want that for him. I do. I won’t stand in the way of it.
Which means I need to remember my place.
That this is not my home.
But neither is my actual home. Not anymore. It’s Blake and Lucy’s home, and I’m just living in it.
So maybe I need a New Year’s resolution—to figure out where I do actually belong.
And then, maybe I can finally believe that I am enough. That the world I’ve built for myself is enough. And somehow, stop worrying that it’s all going to fall apart if I make one more poor decision.