Chapter 3
Brie
Monday morning found me in a small-town version of hell: brunch at Aspen Waters’ bakery, pretending to be a functioning daughter and little sister while the stench of failure clung to me like stale perfume.
I’d worn my favorite vintage scarf and three layers of highlighter, but it wasn’t enough to hide the shadows under my eyes or the general air of a woman whose soul had been put through a meat grinder and left on simmer.
Aspen’s morning rush had cleared out, so it was just us.
A pitiful private party. Translation: Harper, Mom, and I sat alone, so I didn’t have to worry about my dignity.
Aspen had decked the place out with blue-and-white checkered tablecloths, with wildflowers in mason jars on every table.
Sunlight spilled through the large storefront window and made the little glass cases gleam.
The counter was overloaded with things that should have been illegal for anyone with a metabolism slower than a rabbit on Red Bull: lemon scones, apple turnovers, mini quiches with browned edges and tiny chives snipped on top.
The best part? No customers. It was just us, and Aspen’s familiar, Oscar, who wore a little bowtie and plaid vest. He scuttled around refilling our tea as if he hadn’t spent the last ten millennia plotting the downfall of all pastries everywhere.
I couldn’t help but find it cute, the way he held out a tray of strawberry tarts and called everyone “madam” or “milady.”
I sat at the far end of the table, right next to the window, so I could escape with my eyeballs whenever the need arose.
Mom sat prim and proper; hair swept up in a perfect twist, her sweater set matching the silk of her skirt.
She gave me the once-over, her gaze laser-focused on my roots, then my brows, then the scarf, which she’d once called “bohemian, in a kind of sad way.” She smiled wide and brittle as though she hadn’t seen me all morning.
“You look… rested, darling. Dairyville must be doing something right.”
Harper sat beside her, posture perfect, hair in an elegant ponytail, and still managed to look more relaxed than I’d ever seen her.
Maybe that was the effect of pack life. Or maybe it was just Arsenal’s wolf scent, which clung to her like an invisible blanket.
She wore jeans and a white blouse and somehow made it look like a goddamn Ralph Lauren ad.
Aspen emerged from the kitchen, her skin somehow luminous in the bakery light, and sat down a three-tiered tray laden with finger sandwiches and petit fours. “Tea service for three, as requested,” she said, and then to me, softer, “We did the lemon ginger; a personal favorite.”
Oscar, not to be outdone, scampered up onto the table (God bless this pack and its unspoken rules for animal hygiene) and did a little bow. “May I tempt you with a scone, miss?” His British accent was so crisp it could’ve sliced bread.
I took the scone because defiance was exhausting and carbs were the only thing that didn’t judge me. “Thank you, Oscar,” I said, with genuine gratitude.
Mom immediately picked up a napkin and dabbed at her mouth, even though she hadn’t touched a thing yet.
“Isn’t this delightful, girls? Harper dear, you must thank Aspen for going to all this trouble.
It’s so nice to see a young woman take such pride in her work.
Brie, you could learn something from that. ”
Harper blushed and shot me an apologetic glance. “It’s amazing, Aspen. Thank you so much. I’m dying for the apple turnover.”
Aspen smiled and poured her a cup of tea, hands so steady it made me hate her a little. I tried to drink my tea, but it was still hot enough to scald the taste buds off a corpse. I set the cup down and focused on breaking the scone into precise, angry halves.
Mom was off to the races, commentary flying like buckshot.
“Brie, I wish you’d have gone to that concert at the community center last weekend.
I think you would have enjoyed it.” She was giving me a look—subtle, but not subtle enough—because we all knew I wasn’t interested in concerts at the community center.
“Well… I had some things to do at the house.” Like wallowing in shame and staring at the ceiling.
She smiled as if I’d said something witty. “Well, you really should make an effort, darling. This is your home now, whether or not you like it. You have to assimilate.” She pronounced the last word with extra syllables, as if maybe I’d forgotten how to do it.
Aspen piped up, quick, “Brie’s helping me design the flyer for the new muffin menu.” It was a lie, but I appreciated it.
“Of course she is,” Mom said, saccharine smile.
“Brie was always creative. I just wish you’d put it to more…
social use. Why don’t you sign up for the art class they offer at the senior center?
It would do you good to be around people.
” She dabbed at her lips again, even though there was nothing there.
The tea was finally cool enough to drink, so I sipped and tried to let the warmth settle in my chest instead of the usual ache. For a second, nobody talked, and it felt like maybe we could just eat and enjoy being a family, even if it was the Discount Bin version.
Of course, that’s when Mom started in again. “Harper, have you and Arsenal considered children?” She asked, casual as a hand grenade. “I read that it’s easier if you start early, and…”
“Mom!” Harper’s cheeks went pink, and she shot me an apologetic glance.
I nearly choked on the scone. “That’s… wow, Mom. Even for you.”
Mom was unfazed. “It’s a reasonable question, darling. You’re not getting any younger. None of us are.” She smoothed a napkin over her knee, then looked straight at me. “Brie, is there someone special for you here? I notice you don’t talk about anyone from France anymore.”
My insides did a triple axel. I could feel the blood draining from my face.
Harper jumped in, voice gentle. “Brie’s not really seeing anyone right now. She’s focusing on herself.”
Mom’s lips pursed. “That’s probably best. I always thought those French men were a little too… continental for you.”
I snorted, bitter. “You have no idea.”
She reached across the table and, for once, actually took my hand. Her grip was surprisingly strong. “You’ll figure it out, darling. You always do.”
I wished I could believe her. Or that the words didn’t taste like lead in my mouth.
Oscar refilled our tea, and Aspen poured a little cream in each cup, her movements slow and soothing. She didn’t say much, just let the clinking of spoons and the aroma of fresh pastry fill the spaces where conversation would have been.
Mom started talking about how long we’d be living in Parker’s family home.
I wasn’t sure what she was even going to do for money.
I think my father may have had a life insurance policy that was still good?
Harper listened, nodded, even asked follow-up questions.
I let the words wash over me, staring out the window at the empty street and the parked motorcycles gleaming in the sun.
Out there, someone was living a real life, one not defined by brunches and whispered gossip.
I wondered if I’d ever get to be that person.
My phone vibrated; a text from an unknown number. I almost didn’t check it, but curiosity won out.
It was a single sentence, no punctuation:
don’t let them break you
I stared at the screen, heart pounding.
Was it Gunner? I didn’t know if I wanted it to be.
I looked at Harper, her profile soft and sure in the morning light. Then at Mom, who was still talking about grout colors and the importance of a properly set table.
I excused myself, went to the restroom, and stood at the sink, hands shaking just enough to betray me if anyone looked too close.
I stared at my reflection. For once, the harsh overhead light felt honest.
“Don’t let them break you,” I whispered.
I wasn’t sure who “them” meant anymore, or if it mattered.
Maybe I’d figure it out. Maybe I wouldn’t.
I returned to the table, bracing myself for more maternal crossfire, but the dynamic had shifted.
Harper’s eyes were bright, her excitement tangible, and even Mom had the air of a woman who’d just arranged the world’s neatest flower box.
Aspen had retreated to the kitchen, probably to give us space, and Oscar was perched on the counter, nose twitching like he’d just detected a disturbance in the Force.
Harper jumped right in, as if she’d been waiting for me to come back.
“So, actually, I wanted to talk to you both about something,” Harper said, fingers lacing together on the table.
“I’m thinking of opening a dance studio in Dairyville.
There’s an empty storefront across from the courthouse.
The seller has agreed on an excellent sale price.
I just need to get the contract signed and find a contractor and get the space prepped. ”
Mom was delighted. “That’s wonderful! A proper business, Harper. You could teach children—maybe even adults. You could finally use your training.” She actually reached across the table to squeeze Harper’s hand, as if she’d just announced her candidacy for President.
“Here’s the best part though,” she said, leaning in.
“The dance studio has two sides—one big, one a bit smaller. I only need the big one. The other space has great light and a storefront window. I thought… maybe you could do an art gallery. Or one of those paint-and-sip things. You know, with wine and acrylics and…” She stopped, grinning. “It could be fun, right?”