Chapter 25
It occurs to me, on Friday morning as I start my third maple bar in a row, that my coping mechanisms might need some work.
I’m not even hungry anymore; I’m just giving myself a stomachache.
So I sigh and then tuck the maple bar back into its white paper bag, standing up. The bench swing I’ve been sitting on sways slightly, and the pumpkin patch is so quiet today that I actually hear the creaking of the chains.
The Homecoming parade is currently happening on Main; the marching band is faint but audible even from here.
On Monday the schools will open again and fall break will be over, which means things will slow down at Bugelbach’s except for on weekends.
Joe hasn’t decided if he wants to change our weekday hours yet, but if he does, I’ll need to pick up some more online work to make up for it.
I debate going all the way to my car to stash the remaining donut there, but ultimately I tuck it in a corner of the corn dog stand instead. My phone is burning a hole in my pocket the entire time, but I don’t pull it out.
I’m hiding. Not forever—just until I figure out what I’m going to say.
Because I haven’t talked to Dom or my mother since last night.
I haven’t seen either of them, apart from the silent vigil Dominic kept behind me as I walked home.
And I’m not sure how I’ll feel when I do speak to either of them, after the things I said and the things that were revealed at the potluck.
It would be stressful to have three missed calls from Alvina on my phone when I finally check. But it might be sadder to have none. So I’ve spent the morning training myself to be okay with either of those options.
I guess, overall, I’m less worried about Dom. It’s humiliating, knowing that he now knows I doodled his name in my school notebooks. He didn’t even know who I was. But my embarrassment has lessened overnight, possibly overshadowed by my outburst toward Alvina.
Dominic is safe for me. He’s never malicious or careless. He’s made mistakes in the past—but so have I, and even then, our intentions toward each other were always good.
It’s my mother who could cut me to the bone. And the question I found myself asking last night is still swirling through my head, leaving painful tracks everywhere it goes.
At one point do intentions cease to matter? At what point do results become more important?
Dom would say we passed that point with my mother years ago. He doesn’t understand.
The thing is…my understanding is beginning to waver, too.
Because I’ve never actually bought into that saying—The road to hell is paved with good intentions. Intentions matter a lot to me. But Alvina’s good intentions still ended up hurting like hell.
From that, I can only conclude that meaning well is not the same as doing good.
It’s a sticky bit of logic to wade through, when my emotions are grasping at me from all sides and trying to pull me down.
I sigh and swat a bug away from my face before tromping off to find something to do.
The rest of the day meanders on until Joe and I finally close early and head home at four.
Normally we’d be open tomorrow—Saturdays are busy—but the barn raising is going on over near the church at the end of Main.
Most of the town will be there, and I’d like to visit, too, so we’re closed until Monday.
It’s nice, getting off a bit early. I retrieve my last donut from the corn dog stand and eat it on the way back to my humble abode.
And I know it’s only a shed in Dom’s back yard. But with the white picket fences and red-orange trees of classic New England suburbia all around, it’s an easy place to romanticize—to imagine it as an adorable, cozy cottage full of soft cushions and twinkling lights.
When I let myself in, it is still very much a workshop. But I smile anyway before getting my stuff together and then hurrying up to the house so I can shower the pumpkin patch off of me.
After that I spend an hour on the my sofa bed doing a large batch of creative briefs, formatting titles and checking links and keywords. It’s tedious, but I’m getting paid, so I persist.
I don’t hear the rumble of Dom’s truck pulling into the driveway until past six.
By the time I reach the window to peek out, all I catch is a flash of his heavy-duty canvas pants and work boots before he disappears into his garage.
My heart leaps, because it is a stupid muscle, but I remind myself it’s because we still haven’t discussed last night.
That is the only reason.
Still, my brain doesn’t work quite as efficiently after that, and when I’m finally interrupted, my fuzzy thoughts only gets more chaotic.
“Berkeley.”
My muffled name is accompanied by a knock on the door. It’s Dominic, obviously.
I ignore him.
“Berkeley,” he calls again, thirty seconds later and louder now. “I obviously know you’re in there.”
With a jittery sigh, I get off the couch.“There’s no Berkeley present,” I say through the door. “She’s busy at the moment.”
A faint snort of laughter reaches me. “Really? Because I think she’s hiding.”
“She’s not hiding,” I say, indignant. “She’s very tired. Exhausted. She needs her rest.”
“Is she at least decent?” he says back.
I glance down at my tropical pajamas. “Nope,” I call. “Stark naked.”
“Even better.”
My cheeks flush. “Such a scoundrel—”
“I’m coming in through the window. You have ten seconds to get dressed, and ten seconds to stop referring to yourself in the third person.”
I’m already glaring at Dominic when I yank the door open. But he smirks and steps neatly past me, his hands in his pockets as he strolls casually into the shed.
I close the door and turn to look at him, my eyes still narrowed. “This is breaking and entering.”
“Not a single definition of that term applies to this situation.”
“Coercion, then.”
He makes himself comfortable leaning against the large cupboard, folding his arms over his chest. Then he raises his eyebrows at me as his gaze trails up and down my body, lingering on my pajamas and my wet hair. “Used my shower again, I see.”
“You said I could,” I point out. “The back door was open.”
He hums. “Did you snoop while you were in there?”
“Yes. No medicine cabinet was left untouched.”
“I don’t have a medicine cabinet.”
“I would have opened the medicine cabinet, if you had one.”
His lips twitch, but the expression fades. “So,” he says, clearly changing the subject. “Are we gonna talk about it?”
“Nope,” I say, because I know exactly what he’s referencing. I gesture at the door. “You can see yourself out.”
But he shows no signs of moving, much less leaving. “Middle school, huh?”
“High school,” I correct him quickly. “Not middle school. High school.”
“My name in your notebooks?” His voice is casual, but his expression isn’t, and I can see what he’s trying to do.
He’s giving me space to respond however I want, to take this conversation in whichever direction I feel most comfortable. Bantering and joking, or simple and frank.
I choose neither. I just keep my mouth closed until he sighs.
“You could have said something.”
“When?” I say with a snort of laughter. “In high school?”
He shrugs, tilting his head. “Sure.”
“I don’t date smokers,” I say with a sniff, and a little smile tugs at his lips.
It fades, though, as he continues to look at me.
He inhales deeply, his broad shoulders expanding, his eyes regretful.
Then he exhales roughly. “The other night.” He pauses, his gaze falling away.
“I accused you of not—not loving me. Of not being serious about our relationship.” He swallows. “I shouldn’t have said that stuff.”
“You didn’t know,” I say, uncomfortable now. “It was normal for you to think the things you did.”
He hums, an unconvinced sound. “Maybe.”
Then he pushes away from the cabinet as his arms fall to his sides. He tucks his hands into his pockets, drifting slowly toward me, his gaze questioning.
I push away my sudden nervousness and stand my ground, once again reminding myself that there’s no need to get worked up. There’s no need for my pulse to skip or my heart to race.
Dom approaches with easy steps, but his presence is anything but casual. His gaze is locked with mine, no hope of escaping, and when he reaches me, he leans down.
For one wild, absurd second, I think he’s going to kiss me. But his face tilts only enough to take a deep breath.
“More pumpkin pie,” he murmurs in my ear.
“Did you expect something else?”
He begins to step backward, but I reach out and tug on his shirt. Two can play this game, and if my pulse is thundering through my veins without permission, his should be doing the same.
He stumbles forward, his eyes widening as he bumps into me. I go up on my tiptoes and inhale deeply in the crook of his neck, discovering a scent so familiar I could cry, or smile, or both. Laced with the faint aroma of wood shavings, though, is the unmistakable smell of cinnamon and nutmeg.
“You used my soap again,” I breathe before letting go of him.
“Yeah, well, I told you,” he says in a hoarse voice as he looks down at me. Challenge dances in his expression as his gaze flits over my face. “If it’s in my shower, it belongs to me.” He tilts his head. “Or did you forget?”
“I remembered.”
His eyes drop to my mouth, so briefly I might be imagining it. “Good.”
I lick my lips, self-conscious of his attention—but when I do, heat flares to life in his eyes. A muscle jumps in his jaw, and for a second he looks torn, but then he wrenches his gaze away and turns on his heel, heading for the door.
He stops right as he’s about to leave. “I am sorry,” he says roughly.
“I know,” I reply.
Without looking back at me, he nods. Then he yanks the door open, and with one swift step, he’s gone.
I never hear from Alvina.