Chapter 3
THREE
RILEY
The basket of bread rolls in front of me calls my name. When I reach over the table to grab one, the warm, soft texture makes me hum in excitement. I dip the knife into the whipped butter with a single stroke and plaster the yummy carb in my hand.
Mom and I are at The Seaside Dock, sitting at the same table we always do. The restaurant is next to the water on the other side of town, opposite the beach. During the summer, we sit outside on the docks and watch the boats pass by. You can see the beach down the way while people enjoy the sun.
“That’s a lot of butter,” Mom says, taking a drink of her white wine.
“Yeah, well, when you burn a lot of calories from working out, you get to eat buckets of bread and butter with zero guilt.” I rip off a piece and stuff it into my mouth.
“Soon enough that will catch up to you,” Mom mutters.
The two of us are at lunch, while Hailey is at the tattoo studio, working.
This isn’t a typical lunch. In fact, there were never any mother-daughter lunches to begin with.
After the divorce was announced, Hailey and I started getting calls from Mom, guilting us into having lunch with her at least three times a week.
There was always this need to feel close to Mom, and that need grew stronger when Hailey gravitated toward Dad and further away from Mom. This responsibility to be the daughter she wants me to be always looms over me.
Over time, I’ve stopped sharing things with her. The more I shared, the harsher the criticism was. The last thing I shared with her was when I decided to go to college for accounting while also teaching yoga.
‘You have the potential to marry a man who can take care of you. Don’t you want someone who can financially support you?’
I couldn’t comprehend if that was a compliment or not.
“When’s the last time you spoke with your father?” Mom asks.
I stuff the rest of the bread in my mouth, chewing for as long as possible. “The other day. He called to see how things are going with the bakery.”
Mom grimaces. “Riley, chew and swallow your food before you speak.”
Too bad the dock isn’t open due to the freezing weather. It could’ve sped up this conversation, and we wouldn’t need to speak about Dad.
Mom stares at me over her wine glass. She tucks a strand of the same blonde hair as me behind her ear.
People look at us and think we’re sisters.
I swear, every time a person tells us that, it’s like she levels up in a video game.
We have the same eye color, the same lips, even the same freckles—except she covers hers up with pounds of makeup.
I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen her without makeup on.
“And what did the two of you talk about?” she asks in a polite tone, but there’s a bite to it.
I lift a shoulder. “Just catching up on things.”
I lock eyes with our server, who stops by with our plates of food. I sit up straight, eager to eat an actual meal.
“Here is your chicken Caesar salad with a side of fries.” He sets my plates down. “Do you need another Diet Coke?”
The large bowl of bright green lettuce, shaved parmesan sprinkled on top, and juicy chicken with croutons makes my stomach rumble.
“Yes, please,” I say with eagerness.
The server sets Mom’s garden salad in front of her as she continues to glare at my own food. “That’s a lot of dairy, Riley.”
“I know, Mom.”
I’m also working on not letting her guilt-trip me about my food choices. She picks at her salad, stabbing a piece of spinach, tomato, and cucumber before taking a shy bite. I force my eyes to stay in place and not roll to the back of my head.
“Has your father said anything about the divorce?” she asks.
After Dad dropped the news to my sister and me, he moved out of the house and to the next town, which is thirty minutes from here. He always kept himself busy, so his moving out of Dove Point doesn’t make a big difference for me.
“No. Why would he?”
“I just assume he tells you things.”
Before I answer, I take a large bite of my salad and then a fry. I make sure to chew thoroughly so I don't disturb my mother with food in my mouth.
Eat like a lady.
I choose my words carefully when I speak about Dad with her. She’s already talked about what she knows with her girlfriends. Her friends are the chattiest folks in town. Mom knows it’ll get back to Dad. That’s how she works.
“He’s too busy to stop and chat.” I throw another fry into my mouth. “You know I don’t want to be in the middle of this. It’s stressing me out.”
“This is stressing you out?” She points a manicured finger at me. “You don’t need to deal with the lawyers and argue with your father about who gets what. You don’t know stress until you go through something like this.”
My body shrinks down into my seat. “Okay. Sorry.”
We sit in silence for a beat. Silverware clinks against glass dishes, and other patrons murmur to one another. My teeth dig into the side of my cheek.
She sets her wine glass down before asking in a monotone voice, “How are things going with the bakery?”
“It’s going well.” I perk up, desperate to grab her attention. “Luckily, we didn’t need all this construction, just the counter where the register will be with the glass display. We’re painting today. We’ve chosen this creamy tan color. It’s nice.”
Ellie lived in New York for ten years as a pastry chef, and after deciding to stay in Dove Point, it took her some time to convince herself to open her own shop. Her dipshit of an ex, who shall not be named, cheated on her and stole some of the passion away.
Rowan helped her find it again, and I have the honor of being co-owner and handling the office side of things.
Mom nods as she continues to stab at her food and give me minimal eye contact. “I’m going to give you some advice.”
Oh, this should be good.
She points her fork at me. “Be careful who you own a business with.”
I set my fork down and stare at her. “This isn’t the same situation as you and Dad.”
She puts up her hands. “I’m just saying.”
“Are you suggesting Ellie’s going to screw me over? Even though dad didn’t do that. You were the one who wanted to be a stay-at-home mom.”
“I had no choice.”
“You absolutely had a choice,” I chide. “You could’ve kept working at the business or anywhere else.”
Dad opened a dentistry before I was born, and Mom did all the back-end stuff. She eventually grew tired of it and decided it was best for her to leave. And even though it was her idea, she somehow turns it on Dad, making him the bad guy.
“Riley Lewis, you better watch your tone with me,” she spits.
I slump back in the chair, crossing my arms like a teenager. My eyes shift toward the ocean, while I’m trapped behind this glass wall. The vastness of it grabs me.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
She plasters on a smile that’s borderline terrifying. “It’s okay, sweetie. I’m trying to look out for you.”
My head can’t wrap around how she has this power to make me feel this way. It’s easy for me to stand up for myself with others, but not with her.
“So, what are you doing after this?” she asks.
I dig my fork into a piece of lettuce, chicken, and a crouton and shove it in my mouth, making sure I take my time to eat. I’m going to explode in five seconds. Sometimes I just want to tell Mom to shut up and leave me out of her wrongdoings.
“I’m meeting up with Ellie to paint the bakery.”
“Ah, that explains the overalls.”
I look down at my outfit. I thought I looked cute. Very on brand for painting. “Is there a problem with my outfit?”
“No, you can do what you want.” She waves me off. “I’ve never dressed you in overalls.”
“Okay, well, I like it.”
“You don’t need to get defensive. I’m just saying it’s an interesting outfit choice. That’s all.”
“I get it. Can we just finish up our lunch? I don’t want to be late.”
Mom goes back to eating her food in silence, and for the next twenty minutes, neither of us speaks.
I thought painting would be fun, relaxing even. I thought I’d get hypnotized by the strokes. I was wrong. I hate painting.
It’s messy and time-consuming. My clothes are covered in paint. Somehow, even with my hair in a topknot, it’s splattered onto that as well. Ellie has a smear of it on her forehead. I thought this only happened in movies to make it look like the characters are hard at work.
Apparently, any idiot can get paint on themselves.
Our goal is to paint every inch of this space. It’s a massive shop, and it wasn’t until thirty minutes ago that we realized it’ll take us at least two weeks to finish this. Maybe. The previous owner painted the walls a bright pink, like a flamingo.
My imagination is running wild with the outcome of Honey Cakes. We’ve decided on powder blue for the booth color, paired with white bistro tables and chairs.
The walls will be decorated with gold, vintage frames in all shapes and sizes, while pendant lights hang along the ceiling. While I was searching for interior design inspiration, I came across an idea to put faux green vines with peonies placed sporadically down the center of the ceiling.
It’s been two hours since we started to paint, and we still have the other half to finish. The music playing from the Bluetooth speaker keeps us company.
“My biceps will be huge after we’re done with this. I’ll get to pick up Rowan and throw him on the bed.”
“That would be hot,” I say.
Ellie looks at my part of the wall. “How are your strokes smoother than mine?”
I wiggle my eyebrows. “I’ve had a lot of practice.”
Ellie snorts. “That was good.” She pulls her phone out from her overalls pocket. “Rowan and August should be here by now.”
I stop what I’m doing and turn to her. “I didn’t know they were coming.”
“I sent an SOS text half an hour ago. We need help, and everyone else is busy except those two.”
A flutter in my chest surprises me. It’ll just be me, Ellie, Rowan, and—August.
Cool. Cool, cool, cool, cool.
Ellie glances above us. “I mean, we can’t even reach the highest spots on the wall, even with a ladder.”