Chapter 32
Lorraine shared it with her massive following, and all kinds of messages of love and support have flooded in. Zoey and Lennon
were right—people respond to honesty.
It makes sense. I respond to honesty too. After everything I’ve been through, I crave it.
The main storefront is so close to being finished, but my focus is on the food. There is no room for error, only meticulous
precision.
Which is why I spent the entirety of Wednesday morning in the kitchen, reorganizing, cleaning, and making sure the ingredients were properly labeled.
I also painted a wall by the bathrooms with chalkboard paint and wrote in big, swoopy letters: What Do You Really Want? It’s a place for people to write it down, even if they aren’t ready to say it out loud.
Somehow I think it’s going to be a focal point of this whole business.
After spending hours with flour and dough, icing and glaze, I give my brain a break and take myself out to the art museum.
There’s a Degas exhibit—the rooms are filled with his work. Such artistry and passion and color.
It’s so freeing to walk around and enjoy paintings I’ve only ever seen in photographs. When I’m thirsty, I get a drink. When I’m hungry, I head down to the cafeteria and order a sandwich and a bag of chips.
I feel comfortable being by myself. And that’s new.
For years, I took care of John. And Minnie. I put on costumes and plastered on fake smiles and tried to make sure everyone
else was okay.
I never really took the time to take care of myself.
Today, though? I take a bit of time for Claire.
And it’s nice.
My thoughts turn to Miles, as they often do of late when given space to roam. He decided to take back something that was stolen
from him.
And I’m doing that too, but in a different way. For him, it was his business.
For me, it was my whole identity.
Which is maybe why, as I finish the turkey sandwich I ordered at the counter in the lower level of the art museum, I start
to think of who I am, how I got here, and where I’m headed.
Maybe it’s the drawings and sketchbooks of Degas that are prodding me to be so introspective. You can actually see his process,
from scattered lines, to formed sketches, to Seated Dancer. You can’t help but marvel at it.
I pull out my journal, a constant companion now, and I wonder, in the context of my life now, what it all means. I flip through
the pages, remembering how this whole journey started—finding this abandoned book in the cushions of my chair.
I peer back through the memories, wondering where dreams start, how they’re formed, and how they are breathed into existence.
I think about the girl I used to be when I was younger.
Born in prison to a drug-addicted mother, she didn’t stand a chance. She shouldn’t have stood a chance. But she was fearless,
certain that she could do anything and fueled by the world’s belief that she couldn’t.
And stand she did. Because people around her helped her learn how. People like my grandparents and my first real friend, Libby.
Later, when life threw her another curveball and knocked her down—I think of Lennon and Lorraine and Zoey and Ava and Miles—more
people were there to show her how to stand back up again.
I don’t know much, but I’ve learned that I’m not defined by other people’s expectations anymore. I’m not trying to be something
I’m not. I’ve learned that it’s not selfish to take care of yourself—it’s critical.
I’m my own person. I’m a friend. I’m a person who likes new foods. I’m a great texter. I enjoy the occasional comic book convention.
I’ll stand on rocks and dance with kids. I’m a mom to an amazing daughter.
I’m a baker.
I’m a business owner.
I don’t wonder anymore who I am without the traditional labels. And even though I’m still learning, I believe in myself a
little more than I used to. I believe that I can survive when things get hard because I’ve proven it.
I flip to the page with my list, take my pen, and draw a line.
I want to figure out who I am—apart from a wife and a mom.
Then I smile, satisfied, close the journal, and head upstairs to spend a little more time with Degas.
It’s Thursday now, and I’m in the middle of kneading a loaf of sourdough when the back door that leads to the alley behind
the storefront flies open and Miles walks in.
He’s out of breath and immediately starts pacing. A full minute goes by, and he’s yet to look at me.
I’m about to ask him what he’s doing, but he huffs out a breath and scrubs a hand down his face.
“So it turns out that I’m a total hypocrite,” he says, still not looking at me.
My hands are in a big bowl of half-mixed ingredients, and I’m not sure what he’s talking about.
“Because I gave you that big speech about picking yourself up and trying again, and I refuse to do the same thing. With . . .
people.” He puts his hands on his hips. “With you—”
“I never said that,” I say.
“It was implied.”
I press my lips together, but I don’t respond.
“You asked me what I want.”
I stop kneading.
“I did.”
“And I didn’t say anything.”
I nod. “You didn’t.”
“Well, now I’m saying it. Something. I’m saying something. Now.”
I hold my breath.
He looks up, right in my eyes. “It’s you.”
I slowly let out my breath.
“I want you, Claire.”
My heart lurches.
He moves toward me. “Did you hear me? I’m not confused. I know what I—”
But I don’t let him finish. Instead, I grab his face with my floured hands and kiss him so fully my own knees go weak.
It’s fevered and frantic, a dam that’s finally split in half as his arms pull me close, pressing my body against his.
I inhale his familiar, comforting scent, paying close attention to the way his skin feels under my fingers, the way his lips feel against mine—firm but soft—and I melt a little as my mind zeroes in on it all.
But then I pull back, releasing my grip on him with wide eyes. “I just made a mess of your face.” There’s a dusting of white
flour on both of his cheeks as I pull my hands away and take a step back.
The corner of his mouth inches up, and he shakes his head. “I really don’t care about my face right now.” He reaches for me,
pulling me back to him by the belt of my apron. He takes my face in his hands and studies my eyes.
“Is this crazy?” I whisper, certain I already know the answer.
He shakes his head. “The only crazy thing is pretending I could ever be happy just being your friend.” He brushes a thumb
across my cheek and smiles. “You’re gorgeous, you know that?”
I try to look away, but he forces my gaze.
“I’m crazy about you, Claire.”
I hold him a little tighter, but I don’t respond. I’m still wondering if this is a dream.
Then, as if he’s just remembered something, he pulls his hand away and my skin goes cold in the absence of his touch.
“I want to take you out.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets, and I watch a little bit of his confidence slowly fade. “On
a not-boring date.” He gives me that trademark smile, a little of the urgency of this confession dissipating. “I’ll plan everything,
and all you have to do is show up.”
I take a second to pretend I’m thinking about this, even though he could’ve stopped talking after “It’s you,” because that’s when he had me. Maybe I should be more hesitant. Or cautious. And tomorrow, maybe reality will kick in. But
right now—with the way he’s looking at me—I couldn’t walk away from him if I tried.
I chew the inside of my cheek. “Okay.”
“Okay, you’ll go?” He dips down a little, hands stretched out in front of him.
I nod. “Yes. I’ll go.”
“Are you free Saturday night?” he asks. “After you run out of food and have a massive success with the samples? I know the
timing isn’t great. You might be too tired.”
“I won’t be.” Maybe I should play it cool, but after he just kissed the heck out of me like that, the only thing I’m really
thinking about right now is, When can I do it again?
His mouth twitches, like he’s trying not to smile but decides to anyway. “Okay.”
I smile back. “Okay.”
An actual date.
With Miles.
Without the barrier of just friends or off-limits. Without the desperate attempt not to feel all the things I’ve been feeling since the first night we kissed.
“Okay, now go and let me do this—” I nod toward the dough.
“All right.” But he lingers, full lips teasing in a lazy grin. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He leans in and kisses me gently on
the cheek, squeezes my hand, and walks out.
As he leaves, my heart sputters because tomorrow, when I’m decorating and baking and filming videos for social media, when
I should be concentrating on redeeming my name, all I’m going to be thinking about . . . is Miles.