Chapter 2 #3
For a second—just one horrible, familiar second that feels like it stretches into eternity—I wish I could shrink.
Disappear. Become one of Muffin's fur tumbleweeds, floating under the bakery case, invisible and unjudged and not here, not existing, not the subject of small-town gossip disguised as concern.
Not the defective Omega who couldn't make a bond work. Not the failure who got returned like a faulty appliance that didn't meet expectations. Not the cautionary tale mothers probably tell their daughters: "That's what happens when you think you can choose your own path."
But then Reverie—beautiful, chaotic, perfectly-timed Reverie who has apparently appointed herself my guardian angel without asking permission—doesn't miss a single beat.
She pops her head over the counter with all the subtlety of a parade float, voice cranked up to full volume: "Hey, Hazel!
Quick question! Do you have recipe cards for the Cinnamon Soul Cookies?
I really want to post about them but I need the official version so people know this is THE place, the authentic experience, not some copycat situation from that sad bakery two towns over that thinks nutmeg is a personality trait! "
She doesn't pause, doesn't give anyone room to interrupt her enthusiastic rambling.
"And also, people are always asking about variations—gluten-free options, or those little Halloween ghost ones you mentioned for the Book & Bake event, or maybe dairy-free because apparently some people have functioning digestive systems that object to butter which seems tragic but I respect it.
Should I just write it down manually or do you have pre-printed cards I can grab?
Because I want to make sure I'm representing your brand accurately and giving proper credit and also maybe taking photos for Instagram if that's cool?
This is important! Very important! Extremely important, actually! "
She's relentless, steering all attention away from me and my frozen hands and the word still echoing in my head, redirecting the entire room's focus toward the cookies, the display, the upcoming events—literally any topic that isn't my personal history served up for public consumption and judgment.
The two women glance over, surprise flickering across their faces like they weren't expecting witnesses to their casual cruelty, like they forgot that words have impact and people can hear them.
At least one has the decency to blush, a flush creeping up her neck that suggests some functioning sense of shame.
The other suddenly develops a fascinating, all-consuming interest in the candle display, examining each votive with the intensity of someone shopping for her grandmother and definitely not trying to pretend she wasn't just participating in gossip that could devastate someone.
I force myself to move—it takes actual physical effort, like I'm pushing through water or moving in a dream where everything is heavy and slow.
Finish wrapping the croissant. Bag the scone with hands that are trying very hard not to shake and mostly failing.
Ring them up with fingers that have to try three times to hit the right buttons on the register.
I even manage eye contact, which feels like climbing a mountain while carrying all my trauma on my back.
"Thanks for coming in," I say, and it comes out softer than I intended, quieter, but it's something.
More than I thought I could manage thirty seconds ago when I wanted to melt into the floor.
"Let me know if you want to preorder anything for the Harvest & Haunt Festival.
I'm doing sampler boxes—little bit of everything so you can try multiple items without committing to full-size portions or risking your opinion on any single thing. "
They take their pastries with the speed of people who've just realized they've been caught doing something they shouldn't, still giggling under their breath but not quite so bold this time.
Not with Reverie standing there like a pumpkin-haired guardian angel who's seen some shit and isn't afraid to make a scene about it.
The door swings closed with a cheerful jingle that feels completely at odds with the tension still vibrating through my chest like a plucked string.
Reverie's grinning when I finally look up at her, all teeth and defiance and barely contained rage on my behalf.
"You okay?" she asks, dropping her voice this time.
Real concern instead of performance, genuine care in her eyes.
"Sorry, sometimes I get... loud. Really loud.
Possibly too loud. But people in this town?
They only remember what you tell them twice, loudly, with enthusiasm.
Next time someone brings you up, it'll be 'oh yeah, that cookie person,' not whatever garbage they were trying to spin just now. "
My throat feels raw, scraped, like I've been crying even though I haven't shed a single tear because I learned a long time ago that crying makes people uncomfortable and gives them ammunition.
But it's raw in a strange, almost good way. Like lancing a wound. Like letting poison out.
"Thanks," I manage, my voice rough. "I, uh. I really hate that word."
"The D-one?" Reverie's expression darkens just slightly, fury flickering beneath her usual enthusiasm.
"Yeah. Screw 'defective.' Screw that word and everyone who uses it and the entire concept behind it.
If anything, you're overpowered. Possibly too powerful for this town.
Have you tasted your own scones? They're legitimately threatening to the structural integrity of my entire worldview.
I may never recover. I might need therapy just to process how good they are. "
I actually laugh. I don't mean to—it just bubbles up unexpected and sharp and surprisingly genuine, forcing its way past the tightness in my chest.
Reverie pulls out her journal again, already scribbling something with the intense focus of a student taking notes in a class that will definitely be on the final exam and also determine the fate of humanity.
"Already brainstorming promotional angles—'Omega-Owned and Overpowered: Hazel's Hearth & Home Where the Pastries Are Better Than Your Opinion.
' Unless that's too aggressive? I can workshop it.
Maybe add more exclamation points for emphasis.
Or possibly fewer exclamation points for mysterious intrigue. "
"It's perfect," I say, and I mean it with every fiber of my being. "Maybe lose one exclamation point for readability. But otherwise absolutely perfect."
We fall back into easier conversation, the tension from earlier dissolving like sugar in hot water, melting away until I can almost forget it happened.
She tells me about the festival logistics with the enthusiasm of someone planning a military campaign.
Her failed "pumpkin mousse pie" disaster from last year that apparently achieved sentience and had to be defeated with a spatula in what she describes as "an epic culinary battle for the ages.
" Whether there's such a thing as too much vanilla in a cookie—there is not, we're in complete agreement on this, it's scientifically impossible to have too much vanilla.
Reverie licks icing off her thumb with absolutely no self-consciousness, tells another story about her creative writing professor who apparently hated all of her work but "just didn't understand genius when he saw it," and before I know it, my hands have stopped shaking entirely.
The shop feels warmer. Friendlier. Less like a space I'm borrowing and more like something that actually belongs to me.
Mine.
By the time we look up again, the sun has shifted on the floor, creating new pools of golden light that catch flour particles and make them sparkle.
The cookies have dwindled to just a few survivors.
Reverie's already plotting her return visit with the enthusiasm of someone planning a heist or possibly just really excited about baked goods.
"I'll bring actual social media strategy stuff tomorrow," she announces, gathering her things with the organized chaos of someone perpetually juggling seventeen projects and mostly succeeding.
"And maybe a new book recommendation. Do you like haunted houses?
Books about haunted houses, I mean. Not actual haunted houses, though if you're into that I definitely know a place.
There's this abandoned asylum about twenty minutes from here that's supposedly extremely haunted.
I haven't gone yet because I value my life but I'm open to it if you want company. "
"Are you kidding?" I wipe crumbs off my sweater, discovering yet another streak of flour on my forearm.
How does it migrate to new places? Does flour have sentience and the ability to teleport?
These are questions science needs to answer.
"Spooky is my love language. Haunted houses, creepy dolls, possessed kitchen appliances—I'm here for all of it. Bring on the horror."
She scribbles that in her journal with the solemnity of someone recording important historical information for future generations.
"Perfect. Excellent. I'm so glad you're not one of those people who's like 'oh I don't like being scared.
' Those people are boring. Fear is fun!" She's already at the door, hand on the handle, practically vibrating with residual enthusiasm.
"Okay, I'm leaving before I eat all your inventory and you have to ban me for legitimate business reasons.
See you tomorrow, Hazel Holloway. Thanks for not judging my notebook or my life choices or the fact that I definitely have more cookie crumbs on me than any adult should reasonably have. "
She's gone in a whirl of pumpkin-orange hair and enthusiasm, leaving behind only the faint scent of vanilla perfume and several dropped bobby pins that I'll find later in weird places.