Chapter 18
Carol
I leave right away with nothing but a duffel bag, a handful of tip money, and a heart that won’t stop pounding like it’s trying to escape my chest. Evervale still glows behind me, that same snow-globe lie it’s always been, plastic cheer, fake snow, Christmas lights that never burn out.
I used to love that. Now it makes me sick.
Blake doesn’t answer my calls. The first time, it rings out. The second, it goes straight to voicemail. By the third, I know better. He’s hitting the FU button.
I sit on the bus stop bench with frost biting through my jeans and tell myself he doesn’t owe me anything. Blake was good. Safe. And I blew it. The wind stings my eyes, but I tell myself it’s just cold.
The bus hisses to a stop before long, lights flickering like tired stars. I climb on and sit near the back, my bag wedged under the seat. Through the fogged window, Evervale shrinks to a blur of light and shadow. I'm finally moving forward.
Pine City isn’t much to look at, but it’s real. The snow here is gray instead of glittering, the people too busy to notice you exist. I like that. I find a small room above a bakery that smells like butter and sugar and something almost like hope.
The landlord is a short old woman with gray hair and sharp eyes.
She asks if I can bake. Says her and her husband have been looking for someone to run their bakery.
I remember Blake’s soon to be brother-in-law telling me about just this.
I give Grant as a reference, and we hit it off immediately.
Maybe it’s fate. I tell her yes, even though I’ve only ever burned things or mixed drinks.
Turns out I can bake. It’s as easy as mixing drinks. You just put what you mix in the oven. My hands can remember more than I think. Kneading dough becomes meditation. The heat of the ovens wraps around me like a hug, I desperately need.
Every morning, I wake way before dawn, roll out dough, watch the sky lighten through frosted glass. The aroma of cinnamon and yeast clings to me long after I leave, and I don’t mind. It covers the guilt and loss.
By the second week, I know the regulars, the man who comes in for day-old donuts and always leaves exact change. The woman who orders scones but only eats half, saving the rest for her dog. They talk about weather and grandkids. They call it dull. I call it peace.
At night, I walk past dark storefronts and half-lit bars.
The cold bites my cheeks, the quiet hums. I still check my phone when I get home.
Still stare at his number before I remember it’s blocked.
I tell myself it’s for the best. That hearing the biker’s voice would only unravel everything I’ve stitched back together.
I tell myself lies until they sound like truth.
The days slide by, heavy and slow. Work, home, sleep.
Repeat. The rhythm keeps me from thinking too much.
Before the month is out, I call and ask Sugar to clean out my apartment back in Evervale, thankful my lease was month to month.
She says she has room to keep a few boxes until I can pick them up.
Not wanting to remember the sting of humiliation, I stop checking the news from Evervale. I stop wondering if anyone’s still talking about me. I even stop humming Christmas songs, though they still creep in when I’m not paying attention.
I tell myself I’m fine. That I’m healing. That I’m free.
Every lie starts small.
By the third week, my stomach turns on me. The smells in the bakery start making me dizzy. Even coffee starts tasting like metal. I blame it on stress, exhaustion, maybe bad milk. Emily, the college girl who works the counter, teases me when I gag over a tray of croissants.
“You sure you’re not pregnant?” she laughs.
I laugh too, maybe a second too late. “Pretty sure.”
But that night, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling and count the days. The math hits like a fist to the gut. I sit up, shaking, and whisper, “No. Not possible.”
Except it is.
I realize, I’ve been too busy starting a new life to notice a missed period.
The next morning, I walk to the corner drugstore, coat zipped high, hood up like shame has a shape.
I buy the test, pay in cash, don’t make eye contact.
Back in the bathroom, I set it on the counter, stare at it like it might bite.
The seconds crawl. The hum of the radiator fills the silence.
When the pink lines appear, my knees go weak.
I don’t cry. I don’t scream. I just sit there, hands over my mouth, heart pounding so loud it echoes.
My first thought isn’t fear. It’s him. Humbug. I see his face in the garage that night, hear his voice, hushed, jagged, when he called me Peppermint like it was a sin. It was a sin. We were two cheaters. But he pulled out.
And I still remember the warmth on my stomach. Not to mention the danger, the way I felt alive and doomed all at once. And then I remember the truth, the robbery, his lies, the paint dripping down my chest.
The nausea that follows isn’t from the pregnancy.
The next morning, I show up to the bakery early, hoping the ovens will burn the thoughts out of me. The air is thick with cinnamon and sugar, but I can barely breathe. The bell over the door rings, and I look up to see my phone buzzing on the counter.
Sugar.
For a heartbeat, I want to throw the phone in the oven. Instead, I swipe to answer.
“Hey, Caroler,” she says. Her voice is soft, like she already knows. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I lie. “Why?”
“Because your name’s been coming up again. Humbug’s lookin’ for you. Been ridin’ through every bar askin’ if anyone’s seen you. He even went back to Sno-Globes.”
My stomach twists. “Tell him to stop.”
“Carol…” Sugar’s voice drops. “He looks bad. Like he ain’t slept in weeks.”
“Then he can lie awake forever for all I care.”
“He says he just wants to talk.”
“I said tell him to stop.” The words come out sharper than I mean them, but I don’t take them back.
I hang up and stare at the phone until my reflection warps in the dark screen. My pulse won’t slow. The ovens beep, the timer sings. I turn back to work, forcing my hands to move, to roll, to fold.
I tell myself I can do this. I can raise a baby. I can build a new life out of the ashes of the old one. I can bake bread, pay rent, and breathe without motor oil and heartbreak.
Evervale can keep its fake charm.
Humbug can keep his lies.
And I’ll keep this one piece of him, the one thing he’ll never know about. Because I’m not going back. Not ever.
The baby starts to show before I’m ready for it.
It’s not much, just a soft curve that doesn’t go away no matter how I stand. But it’s enough to make my apron fit different, enough to make strangers smile when they notice. Pine City is the kind of town that minds its own business, but even here, people talk in glances.
I’ve been here almost three months. I know the rhythm of the bakery now, the hum of the mixer, the warmth of ovens breathing life into dough.
Mornings are still dark when I start, but they don’t feel lonely anymore.
I hum sometimes, quiet, low, like muscle memory, but never the songs I used to.
Christmas music still feels like a bruise.
The baby kicks for the first time in the middle of icing a cake.
Just one soft flutter, like a secret. I stop what I’m doing, hand on my belly, heart trembling.
It’s the smallest miracle I’ve ever felt.
I whisper, “Hey, little one,” and for a second, I swear everything else disappears, the noise, the guilt, the ghosts.
Then the bell over the door rings.
I look up, expecting the morning regular or the old man with the newspaper. Instead, the temperature drops a million degrees.
Humbug.
He’s standing there, older somehow, rougher. His beard’s a little longer, his eyes darker. He looks like he’s been living on the road and whiskey. His cut’s dusty, leather cracked where his fists probably hit things.
For a second, I can’t move. My pulse stumbles. I think I might drop the icing bag.