Chapter Sixteen
The thing about pushing the boundary of a dangerous territory—tragedy always follows.
A crash. A burn. A body splattered on the cobblestone streets of Honey Brooke, taken out from a single mistake at a tavern that would haunt them until their last breaths and even in the grave as small-town gossip spiraled.
“Do your worst.” Laken’s words played over and over and over in my head, torturing me to the point of physical pain. The wrath in his eyes still burned in my mind, the anger we both knew meant so much more.
Or did it?
Laken could charm anything with a heartbeat. He did it all the time, any place. I hated him for it, I hated how easily I could believe him. It probably meant nothing to him. So it meant nothing to me.
“I swear I’ll shove you off this bed if you don’t stop moving.”
I leapt out of my skin at Maggie’s voice, forgetting she’d crammed herself into the wall side of my tiny bed. Unsettling, but the perfect reminder that I had better things to worry about today—such as spending my last couple hours with my friend before she left.
And as my growling stomach agreed, what better way to spend the morning than a food tour?
Maggie rolled over in bed, her tired curls slipping over her questioning eyes. “A food tour?”
“Yes!” I replied, tossing my body up from the mattress as if someone walked in on me naked. “A food tour, you know? I take you around town and let you sample the best of what Honey Brooke has to offer. It’ll be the flakiest pastries of your wildest dreams!”
The best way to spend the day—and the best way to occupy my mind whilst keeping me away from Laken until I sorted my brain back out. My feet hit the cold planks of my floor as my knees scrambled to awaken. Staggering to my closet, Maggie finally said, “I do love food. I’m in.”
Victory.
“Great! But we have to make one stop first, and I’m going to need some of the brown papers you brought.”
We dressed and Maggie mocked how I’d upgraded my old boots for new ones instead of buying something different. I couldn’t help it; I loved my boots. They loved me. They were little parts of me.
As we got ready and made it downstairs, I didn’t look for Laken in the back. I knew I’d find him there. Since Maggie arrived in town, he’d offered to take care of feedings, and who would I be to reject? I didn’t look for him, I didn’t think about him, and I didn’t keep picturing his lips on mine.
I shut the door behind us. Maggie waited for me near the gate, but as I closed the distance between us, her stare alerted my “Oh no” senses. Everyone has a stare, the kind where you know something troublesome would follow. And my senses were right. I carried on as if I hadn’t noticed.
Continuing with my idea, we staggered into a field of wildflowers between the house and town.
Everyone loves a good wild bouquet, and nobody was better at making bouquets than my wonderful friend.
Throwing together a couple arrangements, hopefully I could sell a few throughout town.
Maggie jumped on board; she’d never turn away the chance to show off her talent and passion.
My flowers didn’t look as stunning as Maggie’s. I’d never possessed the same love for florals as she did; everything I learned was from her. But they were good enough.
“Listen.” Maggie met me at my side, brushing through the tall grass.
“I’m not going to ask what happened last night…
yet.” I felt her gaze slide to me the second the last word emptied from her mouth.
Oh, look. A pretty little bugleherb. Maggie stood two inches taller than me, and I knew her eyes batted without needing to look. “But please tell me before I leave.”
The way I saw it, there were three options:
Tell her now and wallow in self-torment.
Tell her in screams as she rides back to Old Ashton so she has no time to reply.
Never tell her at all and pretend it never happened.
Why did the last two have actual appeal in my mind?
Because the first option made me want to set my skin on fire, crawl out of it, and run away with my bones and my pride.
However, screaming it as she left would alert anyone in hearing distance, and not telling her so I can pretend it didn’t happen felt counterproductive and disrespectful to our friendship.
So I grumbled and whined and rehashed the past night’s events. Love was embarrassing. Hate was embarrassing. And whatever the hell had manifested between Laken and me felt a thousand times worse.
Yes, we got into a… dispute. Was it more? Was it less? Had I misread everything? Had I underestimated how difficult it would be to be around him? I didn’t have any idea.
Maggie’s dimpled grin and her avoiding eye contact made my stomach squeeze. The silence made it unbearable.
“What?”
“Nothing,” she sassed. “Nothing at all.”
I stopped yanking flowers from the ground. “Maggie.”
When my friend turned to me, I didn’t expect her to be laughing. “You can’t be serious, can you? Reece, you are a lot of things, but oblivious isn’t one of them.”
To be fair, it did seem obvious. It should’ve been as clear as day. However, because it was me and him, it was anything but.
“So… what’s next?”
Good question. One I didn’t have an answer to. I felt queasy. Was the world tilting? Spinning? Turning around, I thought I needed just a few more flowers before we continued into town.
“Reece?” Maggie asked, pushing into me to escape a buzzing bee circling around her, most likely attracted to her scent of lavender. “There is a next, yes?”
Excuse me, am I supposed to know everything about my own life?
I stared into the distance, my eyes grazing over the rolling fields of green, basking in the morning’s buttery sun, waving with the gentle breeze.
Little picket fences lined the countryside, herds of shiner sheep scattered about.
Shiners’ wool absorbs sunlight during the day.
At night, whatever they’ve soaked into their skin transforms and their wool glows.
They turn into little fluffy balls of light under the moon.
The smells of breakfast from town drifted to my nose.
Cinnamon and coffee. The sweet, good-morning scent I’d been looking forward to almost warmed my heart, but my moment of soaking it in came to an abrupt stop.
“Reece!”
“I don’t know!” I blurted, shrugging enough to make my neck disappear.
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“I mean I don’t know!”
“How can you not know?”
I stopped, frantically tossing my loose arms in the air. “I don’t know a lot of things!”
A silence formed between us for a moment long enough for Maggie to settle. She sighed, took her place at my side, and chilled the heck out. “Okay… what’s the problem?”
I bit my lips, thinning them against the tips of my teeth and humming. “I don’t know that, either.”
Maggie grunted and my chest rattled with a bit of pathetic laughter.
“Alright.” She dropped the conversation and accepted my answers.
She’d always reacted in kind ways, allowing me time to figure it out later.
She knew when to push and she knew when to not.
I loved her—and hated her—for it. I couldn’t have asked for a better friend.
Standing with arms full of flowers, it was still so obvious to me that the shop was her calling.
And that it wasn’t mine. “Where are we stopping first?”
Ruth’s bakery, Sweet Fang, became the first stop on our tour for several reasons.
One, it was the closest. Two, Ruth made the best melt-in-your-mouth cinnamon rolls and sold juice from local farms. Breakfast didn’t get better than that.
And three, I needed to know she didn’t hate me for massively screwing up her order.
The disappointment on her face had branded itself too vividly on my mind.
I’d walked all the way back to the bakery, showing up with a torn box, a ridiculous excuse, and nothing save for some crumbs Butters left behind.
The small shop had a red-brick counter with a variety display, three round tables, and a tall table along the window.
A jar of chocolate chip cookies sat on the edge where we ordered.
An entire shelf of newly made bread lined the far wall, loaves of white and wheat, garlic cheddar, and cranberry with white chocolate.
Ruth’s display changed and typically varied depending on preorders.
Cinnamon rolls, of course, were stacked as they were in heavy demand.
The icing tasted of cream and heaven, not too sweet but sweet enough I could eat a gallon.
The rolls, always cooked to perfection, fell apart in my mouth.
A perfect balance between done edges and a soft, gushy middle with the faintest butter taste.
Different flavor crescent rolls were on display, some with chocolate drizzles, some with fruit, and some made of chocolate dough with powdered sugar.
Muffins could always be found in the mornings, too, but they weren’t my cup of tea.
Sweet Fang itself had a… unique sense of decor.
Antiques (I thought) filled the walls and every shelf provided.
Old ceramic jars, brittle wooden chairs hung from the beams, dust-covered books bound by aged leather, and a fishing pole or two.
Again, not my cup of tea, but I respected the aesthetic it gave.
It reminded me very much of Ruth, and that meant enough.
Through the stone archway, the bakers rolled their dough and drizzled their secret ingredients in the kitchen, where the magic happened.
A cheery-eyed Ruth stood behind the counter in her pink apron and welcoming grin. “Morning, Reece. You’re up and out early.”
Was that a compliment or critique? It didn’t matter.
“Morning, Ruth.” I offered a smile in return, hiding my nerves running rapid in my belly.
“I have a friend in town and we’re doing a food tour.
” I nodded to Maggie. We reached the counter, and I leaned over.
“You know you had to be our first stop.”