Chapter 3 – Molly
I wasn’t sure what age I started having panic attacks. If I had to make a best guess, I’d say it was sometime in middle school.
I’d been to doctor after doctor, and they all wanted me to take some kind of anxiety medication. Along with the prescription, they always gave me the same speech—try to relax more, get more sleep, so on and so forth—but that was easier said than done when you owned your business and lived alone.
Sure, the bakery was a great distraction from my twisted thoughts, but once I got home, that’s when things got hard.
I was alone with my own mind. It was like a bouncy ball ricocheting inside my skull, slamming from side to side, cycling through everything that could go wrong and every problem that needed solving immediately.
Did you balance the register before you left?
Don’t forget to order more sugar before Thursday or we’ll run out.
What if someone breaks in one night and steals everything and you have to shut down the bakery?
Silver Creek was one of the safest towns in Montana, but my brain didn’t care about that. It didn’t use logic when it was trying to trick me; it used chaos instead.
One of the best distractions I’d found was mother nature. That’s why, if you came to my house, the first things you’d notice were my garden and my chicken coops. If you wanted fresh vegetables or fresh eggs, I was your girl.
I spent one extremely long, hot summer building both structures.
I was pretty sure I smashed my finger with the hammer at least ten times.
And once, I nearly passed out after losing track of time and not drinking a single ounce of water the entire day.
But really, who needed water? Apparently, I did.
When it was all said and done, the chicken coop was a collage of mismatched two-by-fours that looked like one strong gust of wind could knock the whole thing over—but it did its job, and that was all that mattered.
The greenhouse construction wasn’t much better, built from the same collection of uneven, mismatched pieces.
The old green panels patched together with warped wood and salvaged screws were more functional than pretty.
Not a single thing about it was perfect, but somehow it still managed to grow some of the juiciest tomatoes you’d ever tasted.
Between keeping up with my garden and corralling my chickens back into their coop, I stayed pretty busy when I got home after closing Molly’s down each day.
But tonight, it wasn’t a big enough distraction. No matter how many weeds I pulled or eggs I managed to fill my wicker basket with, I still felt like an elephant was sitting on my chest.
Last week, I mentioned my panic attacks to Clara after nearly having another one while I was decorating a wedding cake.
She’d listened quietly, nodding like she always did, like she was filing the information away for later. I should’ve known that look meant trouble.
The next day, she showed up with a solution.
Marijuana. The roll-it-up-and-smoke-it kind. She offered it up like it was a stick of gum.
I must have looked at her like she’d lost her mind, because she laughed and waved a hand at me. “Back in my day, this did the trick just fine,” she’d said.
Don’t get me wrong, adult Molly was a free-spirit, willing to try anything once, which meant you’d better believe teenage Molly was the exact same way.
Anyone who read between the lines would know this wasn’t my first time being around such substances.
But I hadn’t exactly expected this to be Clara’s answer to my anxiety.
I still didn’t say no.
So now I stood in the yard, watching the chickens peck at the grass like the world wasn’t ending inside my chest. The rolled-up paper still sat in the pocket of my white cardigan, and the pressure behind my ribs tightened more by the second.
No matter how many deep breaths I took, it wasn’t going away.
Screw it.
I turned on my heel and marched to the tool shed, yanking the door open. The familiar smell of oil and sawdust wrapped around me as I scanned the workbench, drawers, and shelves. Surely I had a lighter out here somewhere.
I knocked over a jar of nails, cursed under my breath, and finally found one that had been shoved into the back corner of a drawer. Knees weak, I shut the shed door behind me and leaned against it, heart pounding like it was trying to escape my chest.
Pulling the joint out of my pocket, I stared at it for a moment before lighting the opposite end.
The first inhale burned more than I remembered, sharp and unpleasant, making my eyes water. I coughed, bent forward, and laughed weakly at myself. Real graceful, Molly.
I tried again—slower this time. The smoke filled my lungs, warm and thick, and when I exhaled, I pretended I was blowing out the negative thoughts.
After a few more minutes, my shoulders softened, and the tight band around my chest loosened just enough that I could take a full breath without feeling like I might shatter.
“Okay, Clara,” I whispered. “Maybe you were onto something.”
“Onto what?” someone said from behind me.
I jumped, spinning around and instinctively dropping into a fighting stance—one I hoped might be intimidating despite my five-foot-two stature. That hope vanished the second I looked up.
Of course.
Not only had I been caught smoking a joint for the first time since high school, but the person who caught me was a man of the law.
“Umm—nothing,” I said, jerking the still-lit joint behind my back and praying Liam somehow hadn’t noticed.
He held his hand out, palm up. “Give it to me.”
“Give you what?”
“Don’t play dumb, Molly. I can smell it.”
I eyed him suspiciously but didn’t move.
“Now,” he said, his hand still outstretched.
“I can explain,” I blurted, finally holding it out for him to take.
Liam took it, turning the joint between his fingers, studying it.
“What kind is it?” he asked.
I laughed nervously. “I have no idea. Clara gave it to me—said it might help with my panic attacks.”
He didn’t respond. Just stared down at me, unreadable.
My stomach dropped. He was going to arrest me for real this time.
“Are you going to take me to jail?”
I could already see my mugshot.
“Nope,” he said casually.
Before I could process his surprising answer, he lifted the joint to his lips and took a slow, deliberate inhale.
My jaw practically hit the ground. “Uh—what are you doing?”
“Smoking your joint,” he said nonchalantly.
“I mean, yeah, I can see that, but like… isn’t that against the law? And if anyone should be following it, shouldn’t it be you?”
“You know marijuana’s legal in Montana, right?” he said, exhaling a stream of smoke.
“Since when?”
“Six months ago. Recreational and medical. Pick your poison.”
I let out a breath, my shoulders sagging with relief. Liam laughed—a deep, genuine sound that made it very clear he’d enjoyed every second of messing with me.
I punched his arm. “That’s not funny, Liam. I almost had a heart attack. The panic attack I was having was about to be the least of my problems.”
“Why were you having a panic attack?”
“The short answer is I don’t know. The long answer is I don’t know.”
He lifted the joint to his lips again, inhaling. He didn’t say anything, just kept staring down at me with that scowl he always has on his face.
“Sometimes when I’m alone I get in my own head, think of problems that aren’t even real, and work myself up over nothing. It’s like my brain won’t shut off. Then not long after that, I feel like someone’s putting bricks on my chest to the point that I can’t breathe.”
“Hmm.” He pulled out his phone, dialing a number I recognized. “Hey. I'm not going to make it to boys’ night tonight. Something came up.”
I looked at him confused as he ended the call with my brother, Jace.
“What came up?”
“You.”
“Me?”
“Yeah. You said you get in your head when you’re alone, so I’m not leaving you alone.”
I laughed awkwardly because that was what I did when people tried to do nice things for me. I laughed like a weirdo because it made me uncomfortable to accept help. Ninety-nine of my problems I could solve on my own, but I guessed this was the one thing I’d never be able to get over.
“What does Molly McKinley do on a Friday night when she’s at home all alone?” Liam asked, looking around my backyard, taking in the chicken coops and tomato plants.
“Liam, you can go to guys’ night, seriously. I’ll be fine here by myself.”
“I’ve already made up my mind, and you’re not the only stubborn person standing in this backyard right now. So like it or not, I’m not leaving.”
“Well, I already pulled the weeds in my garden and checked on the chickens for the night. I was about to go back inside and wash up. Probably watch TV or something, I’m not sure.”
“Okay. While you go wash up, I’ll order us a pizza for dinner. I’m starving.”
“I bet you are.” I giggled, looking down at the joint still in his hand.
He rolled his eyes at me. “It’s going to take more than two puffs to get me high, Molly. I’m over six feet tall, you know. Now what do you want on your pizza?”
“Pepperoni and pineapple, please.”
“Hell no. Pineapple does not belong on pizza.”
“Says you,” I argued, putting my hands on my hips.
“I always knew there was something wrong with you. Now I finally know what it is.”
“Keep talking shit, and I’m going to kick your ass.”
“What are you, like five-foot-two?” he mocked, sizing me up.
“I’m not above kicking you in the balls in order to make the fight fair.”
"Oh, believe me, I know. You ran from me yesterday. Absolutely nothing would surprise me at this point when it comes to you,” he said, laughing.
“Oh my goodness, did I just make the grumpiest person this side of the Rocky Mountains laugh twice in one night? I must have magical powers.”
“You don’t have magical powers, but what you better have is the lemon bars I was promised in return for your freedom.”
“Right… About that…”
“Molly…” he said, eyeing me.
“They’re in my kitchen, calm down. I stayed late to make sure I got them done to perfection. Made with extra love of course,” I said, blowing a kiss at him which earned me another scowl. He pointed toward the house. “Go,” he ordered.
“Fine.” I turned on my heel and marched back toward my house. I had plenty of energy to pick on Liam all night, but I figured I’d go on easy on him—at least for now.