Chapter 37
Chapter Thirty Seven
Paige
I’m staring at the clock as if I can mentally will the minute hand to move backward.
It’s ridiculous—I know it’s ridiculous—but I can’t seem to stop glancing up every two minutes, waiting for the tiny black line to move, waiting for the door to rattle, waiting for his silhouette in the glass.
The bakery is technically closed; the bell is flipped, the lights in the front half turned down to a soft, amber hush, the cases empty except for two lemon cookies I couldn’t bring myself to sell because they cracked in a funny way.
The back still smells like sugar and heat and the last batch of scones I pulled a lifetime ago, but the hum in my body has shifted from busy to brittle. The kind of nervous electricity you get on the edge of a storm.
He said he’d come by.
I told myself all the reasonable things first. It’s the dinner rush. Someone called out. He’s buried under receipts because Wednesdays are always weirdly busy. The Wandering Pint is never boring, and Ben is the kind of person who will short himself sleep before he’ll short anyone else help.
But the hour mark clicks past and my phone still sits face-up on the counter, a dark, stubborn rectangle. No text. No “ten minutes.” No “be there soon.” When I finally give up and call, it goes straight to voicemail. The phone doesn’t even try to ring.
The sample platter looks smug about it, which is insane because it’s a paper plate.
I’ve arranged a little army of minis: two-bite cupcakes with brown butter frosting, two more with salted caramel frosting, quartered blondies with a lemon glaze, a neat row of shortbread dipped in dark chocolate and sprinkled with sea salt.
The idea was to taste through film festival pairings so we could land on something fun. Chocolate and stout? Cinnamon and a spiced ale? Lemon and—God help me—whatever miracle he pulls in a keg that tastes like spring.
I guess we didn’t technically make plans set in stone, but he said he would come by after I closed.
I slide the whole thing into a brown paper bag, fold the top twice, and press the crease with the heel of my hand. “That’s it,” I tell the bag since there’s no one else. “I’m not waiting around anymore.”
My keys clatter when I scoop them; I’m all sharp movements.
I flick off the last light in the prep area, and my reflection jumps in the shiny steel of the fridge—a tired woman trying to hide it with concealer and caffeine, her hair pulled back in a neat knot that she had to redo after finally closing.
My stomach rolls in a lazy, warning way; I fish a ginger candy out of the jar by the register and pop it into my mouth, relishing the spicy burn. The baby has particular opinions about when I get to be dramatic and always tries to beat me.
I snatch my bag from under the counter, tuck the pastry samples into it, and walk the perimeter out of muscle memory—back door latched, ovens off, sink handles tight, the flick-flick-flick of switches as I bring the front down to that late-evening glow that makes the glass look like a mirror.
I lock up, test the handle twice, press my palm to the cool of the door because I always do, and then pivot on my heel straight toward the Wandering Pint.
It’s not even thirty steps, but tonight it feels like a crossing. The Pint is the opposite of my quiet; it’s in that happy middle where day and night stack on each other—tourists glowing with river sun and locals shedding work like old coats. Laughter rides beer foam, low and warm.
When I push the door, the bell gives its friendly little jingle, and I scan for him in the crowd.
He’s not behind the bar.
It’s Mark and a guy I don’t recognize—freckled, open face, maybe early twenties, soft new-bartender nerves he’s doing his best to hide.
On the far wall, a couple clinks forks against plates, and a man in a battered Paducah Boat Tours cap cackles at whatever story he’s telling his friend. I feel suddenly, stupidly conspicuous, like I just walked onstage into the wrong play.
Should I just go home?
No. No. He’s the father of your child. If you can’t be pissed at him, who can you be pissed at?
I square my shoulders and muscle my way to the bar.
“Hey, Paige.” Mark sees me as he slides a pilsner across the wood to a guy with sawdust still caught in his beard. He’s easy, the kind of presence that steadies a room. “What can I get you?”
“I’m—” I glance toward the office hallway without meaning to, then flip back. “Is Ben around?”
Mark and the new guy trade a quick look before Mark schools his face neutral. “Not sure,” he says carefully. “He, uh… he left a while ago.”
“Left?” The word clangs in my chest. “Like, for the store? For the night?”
“Left-left,” Mark says, then winces. “Sorry.”
“How long?” My voice sounds too thin to me. I can hear how I’m trying to be breezy and kind of failing.
“Few hours,” Mark says, and now he looks sheepish. “He didn’t say where he was going. Just grabbed his keys and… he was gone.”
“We tried calling him,” the new guy says.
“We have,” Mark says quickly, lifting his palms. “Went straight to voicemail.”
“Did something happen?” My brain starts assembling possibilities, and I force myself to shut that machine down. “Why’d he leave like that?”
Mark hesitates, then leans closer across the bar, lowering his voice enough that it reads as kindness instead of gossip.
“To be honest, there was chatter all afternoon,” he says.
“About the two of you.” He looks apologetic because he’s not the kind of person who enjoys passing along small-town noise.
“Yeah.” My mouth curves in a humorless approximation of a smile. “Story travels faster than the river.”
I felt it all day—those sideways looks that come with the double punch of curiosity and math. The tilted heads when customers read my face like it might give them the behind-the-scenes answer they weren’t brave enough to ask.
It’s been like that all day. I just figured someone saw us through my window last night.
I told myself I didn’t care. And if I’m being honest, I didn’t, not in the way that bites deep. I knew it was coming the moment we stepped out of the private and into the open.
But a small, stupid part of me still twists now, wondering if that’s what sent him spinning. If all those eyes made him want to erase what happened. Erase us. If he didn’t want to be known like that. If he didn’t want to be known with me.
“He was handling it,” Mark says quickly, reading too much in my face. “He did that thing where he sets his jaw and just… does the job. But then—” He glances toward the far end, like Ben might pop out any second and deck him. “We got a group of older guys in. Three. Didn’t look like tourists.”
I glance over to the new bartender, and he makes a face. “I wasn’t here,” he supplies unhelpfully. “Just heard about it when I got in. Sorry.”
I turn back to Mark.
“What did they do?” I ask, and my stomach tightens.
“Came in. Ordered beer,” Mark says. “Then they just… got into it with Ben. I don’t know. They accused us of cutting the beer with water. Demanded new ones on the house.
“One of them called him a thief. Another said something about ‘good-for-nothing.’ Ben tried to keep it cool, but then he just… tossed them, you know? Calm, clean, out. And the second the door shut, he told us to take the stick, and he walked.”
My hands are steady on the bar. I only realize I’m gripping too hard when my knuckles tell on me.
“A thief,” I repeat, because that’s the word my brain stuck to. “What does that mean? Where did he go?”
Mark shakes his head. “He didn’t explain.” His eyes are apologetic. “I figured I’d catch him after he cooled off. But he never came back.”
I nod. I don’t trust my voice, so I nod.
I let go of the bar and step back, the room tilting a degree off center before it rights itself. Gossip, I can handle. I've been handling it since I was old enough to bake a cake that looked too pretty for my brother not to tease me.
But something about those men got under Ben’s skin. They called him a thief. I may not know all the details of Ben’s life, but I know what words like that could do to him.
“Okay,” I say to the bartenders, because they’re looking at me like I might know where the owner of their workplace went. “Thanks. If he comes back—”
“We’ll tell him you were looking,” Mark says, gently. “And we’ll keep trying him.”
“Me too,” I say, and I turn away from their concern because if I stand here much longer, I’m going to cry. Not because he’s embarrassed by me—God, Paige, get your ego out of the kitchen—but because he’s gone, and no one knows where.
I duck around the end of the bar, out of the sight lines and the conversation.
My phone is already in my hand by the hallway where the bathrooms are, and I hit his name without thinking.
Voicemail again. His recorded voice asks me to leave a message.
I don’t. I hang up because the idea of putting words into that empty space makes my throat close.
Whatever I have to say, I can’t say it there.
Think. Where does he go when he can’t breathe?
He’s not a walker the way I am. He doesn’t go to the river unless I’m dragging him that direction.
He doesn’t have a favorite bench or tree, or overlook.
He has a truck and a deck and a stubborn streak that makes him keep moving until the motion burns itself out.
A trickle of nausea rolls through me. I press my palm flat to my belly. “You and me both,” I whisper, and then I call the only person who might be able to triangulate Ben Hoffman on a night like this.
Jason answers on the second ring. “Paige.”
“Have you heard from Ben?” I don’t bother with hello.
“No.” His voice is neutral enough that I can hear what he’s not saying. He’s trying to be careful. For me. For himself. For the thing in the middle of all of us, the one we haven’t quite worked out yet.
“He left the Pint,” I say, keeping my voice low even though it doesn’t matter if the hallway hears. “Hours ago. No one knows where he is. His phone goes straight to voicemail.”
There’s only silence on the line—just long enough for the hairs on my arms to lift—before he says, “What happened? Do you know why?”
“I don’t know everything. The staff said there was gossip about us, obviously.
” I roll my eyes at the wall. “Then a group of older guys came in and were… awful. They accused him of cutting the beer. They called him a thief. Good-for-nothing. Mark couldn’t hear all of it, but he said Ben tossed them and then walked out. That was hours ago.”
Jason’s inhale is quick and sharp. His voice goes tight, controlled, and careful. “Okay.”
“Okay—what?” Panic pricks the backs of my knees. “Jason, what does that mean? Why would someone call him that? What’s going on?”
“I’ll take care of it,” he says.
“Jason.” My voice spikes, and I make myself drop it a notch. I head toward the back door, toward the empty chill of the service hall, because my skin feels too thin in the public part of this building. “No. You don’t get to go all cryptic Batman on me. What is going on?”
“I’ll take care of it,” he repeats, and now he’s doing that cryptic big-brother thing where he wants to take care of the problem himself and expects me to get behind it. “I’ll find him. Are you at the Pint?”
“Yes. No. I’m in the hallway by the bathrooms.” My laugh comes out wrong. My eyes burn. “I was supposed to meet him tonight to finish the film festival plan, but he didn’t show up. He’s not answering.”
He’s quiet for two beats. Three. “Go home,” he says finally, softer. “I’ll call you when I find him.”
“I’m not going home,” I say on instinct. The hallway air tastes like dish soap and fryer particles. “I’m going to drive around, check the river path, his place—”
“Paige.” Just my name, but it feels like a hand on my shoulder.
“What.”
“Just trust me, okay?” he says quietly. “Please.”
His tone stops me in my tracks. I squeeze my eyes shut because this isn’t the moment to untangle that chord. “Fine, but let me know the second you find him.”
“Copy that.”
The call ends, the screen goes black, and I’m left standing in the Pint, feeling lost.