Chapter Two
Hope
The muffins were a complete and utter disaster.
An insult to the art of baking. Early sunlight slanted through the blinds, catching the tray and spotlighting every flaw.
What should have been lemon-lavender triumphs for the farmers’ market were instead deflated hockey pucks, sad and sunken, their gray tops puckered and uneven.
They were dense, bitter, and absolutely unappetizing.
The lavender pooled in odd pockets like bruises.
The lemon zest was sharp and acrid instead of bright.
I had followed the recipe, or tried to, but somewhere between the flour and the hope, everything had gone sideways.
These weren’t just bad muffins; they were a culinary crime scene, the evidence clear—charred fragments glued to the sheet, purple flecks clustered like the aftermath of a botched experiment.
Faith wandered in, still pajama-clad with her hair in a messy bun, and paused, surveying the carnage. Her gaze drifted over the tray of misshapen muffins and burned-edged cookies. “Oh, honey,” she murmured, voice gentle.
“Don’t,” I muttered, prying at one with a spatula. It stuck, stubborn as guilt. The bottom crumbled away in blackened shards, leaving the rest cemented to the pan—another piece of the crime scene. My hands shook, frustration simmering beneath the surface.
Faith stepped closer, inspecting the damage as if searching for signs of life. “I’m sure they taste better than they look,” she offered, careful and kind.
“They don’t.” The spatula clattered onto the counter. I hugged myself, staring down at my latest failure—one more reminder that baking was a talent I simply didn’t possess.
Faith picked up one of the least offensive specimens from the edge of the tray and broke off a piece. She chewed slowly, her face a study in careful neutrality—the slight pause before swallowing, her jaw working overtime. “It’s... rustic,” she said after a moment, her tone delicate.
“It’s garbage.”
“Hope—”
“Faith, stop. I know you’re being nice. You’re always nice.
All of you are.” I gestured toward the hallway, where Charity and Joy were surely still asleep, and where Shadow and Joan occupied the other side.
“You all eat my disasters and smile and tell me they’re fine, but they’re not.
I can’t bake. I don’t know why I keep trying.
” The last word cracked in my throat, and shame rose hot and sharp, prickling behind my eyes.
As I scraped the muffins into the trash, watching them tumble over coffee grounds and paper towels, I remembered a childhood morning—my father’s hands dusted with flour, laughter echoing in the kitchen as we mixed blueberry batter.
It didn’t matter if we burned them; what mattered was the warmth, the feeling that we could make something beautiful together.
I had always wanted to recapture that—to bake for my family, to create those moments again.
It was why I kept trying, despite my failures: because somewhere inside, I still believed a batch of muffins could bring us closer, could make the farmhouse kitchen feel like home.
But this morning, there was more at stake than nostalgia.
The farmers’ market regulars expected baked goods, and my muffins were supposed to help stock the table, draw in customers, maybe cover a grocery bill or two.
Every sale mattered—these small victories kept our household running, and every failure stung twice as hard for the disappointment it carried.
I hated letting my family down, hated the thought of showing up empty-handed and feeling their quiet, patient acceptance of my shortcomings.
Faith set the muffin down and leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “You want to contribute. You want to make things special for people. That’s not a bad thing, Hope. It’s actually beautiful.”
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Instead, I scrubbed the muffin pan with more force than necessary, letting the scalding water burn my hands.
Maybe as penance, maybe as proof that I could feel something besides disappointment.
The smell of failure lingered in the kitchen, and the sunlight cast long, accusing shadows across the floor.
Faith squeezed my shoulder, warm and steady, and left me alone with the ruined muffins, the memory of what baking meant, and the quiet ache of another morning gone wrong.
By seven, Charity and I were loading the truck with the good stuff—the lotions and soaps I’d made earlier in the week, the candles that actually turned out half decent, the dried herb bundles that always sold well. No muffins. No baked goods at all today.
Charity didn’t mention it. She just helped me stack the crates and climbed into the passenger seat, her long hair pulled back in a braid, her face fresh and awake in a way mine wasn’t.
“You sleep okay?” she asked as I started the engine.
“Yeah.”
“Liar.”
I shot her a look. She grinned.
“I heard you up at three,” she said. “Pacing.”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Thinking about Angel?”
I gripped the steering wheel tighter. “No.”
“Hope.”
“I wasn’t thinking about Angel.”
She was quiet for a moment, then said, “Then what were you thinking about?”
I didn’t know how to answer that. Because the truth was, I didn’t know.
I had been lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling this hollow ache in my chest that I couldn’t name.
It wasn’t sadness. It wasn’t loneliness.
It was just... emptiness. Like something vital was missing, and I didn’t know what it was.
“Nothing,” I said finally. “Just couldn’t sleep.”
Charity didn’t believe me, but she let it go.
The farmers’ market thrummed with the low murmur of voices and the sweet tang of cut fruit drifting on the breeze.
Saturdays always meant chaos—boxes thumping on pavement, the sticky sting of morning sun on my neck as I pulled taut the white tablecloths.
Charity and I moved with practiced rhythm, arranging lotions up front where sunlight would catch their pastel labels, stacking soaps into pyramids that threatened to topple every time someone brushed past, grouping candles by scent until the air seemed layered: vanilla, sandalwood, citrus.
My fingers felt numb, cold despite the warmth, the way they sometimes did when I had been up all night.
Three years of this. I could set up blindfolded, but today it felt like moving underwater.
Faces blurred as people drifted in and out, their chatter blending into a distant hum.
I smiled when expected, but the muscles in my cheeks ached.
The lavender lotion for dry hands—Faith’s favorite, though she never came to the market anymore.
The peppermint soap for headaches—I remembered the time Charity pressed it to her temples after finals, eyes squeezed shut.
Vanilla candles for relaxation, though lately, I wondered if anything could actually unwind the knots inside me.
My hands moved on autopilot: bagging purchases, counting out change, brushing fingertips against paper and skin, cold coins sticky with sweat.
Every transaction left me emptier, like each customer was taking a little piece of me along with their soap.
There was a hollow inside me. A deep space I couldn’t fill.
Sometimes it throbbed, like pressing on a bruise.
Sometimes it was just quiet, a dull ache behind my ribs that made it hard to breathe.
I remembered last night: lying in bed, the ceiling fan spinning slowly, the air tasting of dust and regret.
No tears, no real sadness. Just nothing.
Just emptiness so thick it muffled even my thoughts.
Charity watched me from across the booth, her eyes flicking up every time the crowd thinned, worry etched in the crease above her nose. During a lull, she leaned in, her voice a whisper pressed between the lemon soaps. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” My mouth felt dry, lips cracking as I forced the word out.
“Hope.” Her tone was gentle, but her hand on my arm was firm, grounding me.
“I’m fine, Charity.” I glanced at the soaps, rearranging them again just to avoid her gaze. The lemon bars looked crooked; I straightened them, fingers trembling.
“You’re not fine. You’ve been weird all morning. Actually, you’ve been weird for weeks.” Her voice was soft but insistent, cutting through the noise.
I busied myself, rearranging candles, trying to remember if I’d sold more vanilla or sandalwood last week. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Is it Angel?”
My hands stilled, the waxy surface of a candle cool under my palm.
“Why does everyone keep asking me about Angel?” Angel, a brother in the Diamondback MC, always steady, always watching.
He had been hanging around for months, part of the motorcycle club that built businesses all around town and a bar down on Main.
Safe, dependable. The kind of guy I was supposed to want.
“Because he’s been chasing you for months and you keep pushing him away. And I don’t get it. He’s nice. He’s interested. He’s patient. What’s the problem?”
I didn’t answer. I wanted to. I wanted to say I was grateful, that his attention felt flattering or comforting.
But the emptiness inside me pressed heavier, like a weight I couldn’t shift.
Angel was all of those things. Nice, interested, and patient.
He was good-looking, steady, with a job at the club, and everyone said I should be happy he noticed me.
He treated me well, never rushed, never demanded.
Everything I was supposed to want. But I didn’t want him.
And I didn’t know why. The hollowness grew sharper, scraping at the inside of my chest, making me want to run and hide and curl up somewhere dark.
“There’s no problem,” I said finally, voice softer. “I just... I’m not ready.” My words felt brittle, like glass about to shatter.