8. Mariana
Mariana
I wake before the sun, the silence of the house pressing in around me, thick and suffocating. Sleep has been elusive for months, and last night was no different.
Some nights, it’s my body that betrays me—aching joints, stiffness that refuses to ease, the deep, dull pain that makes even shifting under the covers feel like a battle.
But most nights? It’s my mind. A relentless reel of memories and regrets, of what-ifs that have no answers. Every night, I close my eyes, willing my thoughts to settle, but they don’t. They never do.
I slip on a hoodie, the fabric soft and worn, lace up my sneakers, and step outside, inhaling the sharp bite of the crisp morning air. A light fog clings to the street, hovering low, swirling in the dim glow of the street lamps.
The world feels half-asleep, suspended in that quiet space between night and dawn. I don’t have a destination in mind—just a restless energy in my limbs, an urge to move, to shake off the heaviness pressing on my chest. So I walk. Letting my feet carry me wherever they want to go.
I slow without realizing it, my steps faltering as my eyes lift to the sign above me. The Rolling Pin. My breath catches. Ruth’s bakery.
I knew Anna wasn’t lying when she said Ruth retired, but seeing it like this? The once-bright windows are dark, the door shut tight. No golden glow spilling onto the sidewalk, no handwritten specials chalked onto the sign out front.
No scent of warm cinnamon rolls curling through the air. No quiet hum of the oven, no clatter of trays, no muffled laughter from the kitchen. Nothing. A lump forms in my throat.
This place was so much more than a job to me.
It was a piece of my childhood, my teenage years, my heart.
It’s where I learned how to bake, where I first realized that mistakes didn’t have to be failures—they could be something beautiful.
I can still hear Ruth’s voice in my head: "Baking is a science, Mari, but decorating? That’s art.
If you mess up, make it part of the design. ”
I close my eyes for a second. I can almost see it—Ruth and me, side by side, aprons dusted in flour, holiday music playing as we decorated cakes, her laughter filling the air.
My hand presses against the door, fingers curling around the knob. Please be open. I turn it gently, half-expecting resistance, but it gives way without hesitation. I step inside.
The air is still, carrying only the faintest trace of flour and sugar—a memory refusing to fade away completely. Dust coats the counters, a fine layer undisturbed for months, drifting lazily in the air, stirred by my presence.
The chairs remain stacked, the display cases stand hollow and bare. It looks…the same. And yet, it couldn’t feel more different. The space that once hummed with life, with Ruth—now sits quiet and empty.
I exhale slowly, my heart pulling in two directions. I walk toward the kitchen, my true home inside this place. The second I flick the light switch, something shifts inside me. It still smells like Ruth. Faint vanilla. A whisper of cinnamon.
This place still has so much magic left in it. I know it. I feel it. I need to try. For me. For Ruth. For this town.
I swallow, the first flicker of doubt creeping in. I’ve been gone for so long. Why would Ruth sell it to me? I don’t have a business degree. I don’t know what she’s looking for. But I want this. Boy, do I want this.
I take one last look around, flick the lights off, and step back into the morning air. I have a conversation to prepare for. One I never thought I’d be having. But one I need to have.
I had been marching straight toward Ruth’s house, ready to demand she give me a chance, when I realized…The sun was barely up, and as much as I want to fight for this, I also don’t want to start our conversation with her mad at me for waking her up at dawn.
So, I did what any sensible, patient adult would do. I turned right back around and walked home.
Waiting is hell. Minutes feel like hours. I’ve scrubbed the house from top to bottom. Baked cookies. Rearranged the spice cabinet.
And now, I’m sitting on my couch, notebook in hand, writing a speech to Ruth on why I’m the best person to take over the bakery—a movie playing in the background that I’m definitely not paying attention to.
My knee bounces. My heart races.
Why is time moving so damn slowly? Father Time, you wanna help an anxious girl out right now? If my heart rate keeps climbing like this, I’m going to give myself a heart attack before I even get to Ruth’s doorstep.
Sighing loudly, I grab my phone and check the time. 10:05 AM. She should be awake by now… right? She’s probably had her coffee. This is fine. It’s time. Right?
I take a deep breath. Right.
I march straight toward Ruth’s bright yellow door, ready to beg her to give me a chance. It’s eccentric, just like her, I love it.
She peeks her head out, gripping her robe tightly, probably prepared to send whoever’s knocking at this hour on their way. Then she sees me, and her face shifts—shock, recognition, concern.
“Mariana?? What are you doing here? Is everything okay?”
I open my mouth, nothing comes out. I look at Ruth. Look at my feet. Look at Ruth again.
“Uh, yea— I mean, yes. Everything is great. I just wanted to talk to you about something. Can I come in please? Unless this is a bad time, then I can totally go back home and come back at a time that’s better for you.
Yep, maybe that’s what I’ll do. It’s early, I didn’t mean to bother you. Sorry, Ruth!”
I’m panicking. My feet are already moving away from the door. Ruth sighs, then catches my arm before I can make a full escape.
“Mari, I don’t know what’s going on, but you’re not bothering me at all. Please. I’ve been up for hours—early bird and all that.” She grins, wiggling her eyebrows. “I just made a fresh pot of Café Bustelo, your favorite.”
Before I can respond, she wraps me in a warm hug, in an instance it melts years of distance away. For a moment, I’m five years old again, my face pressed against her familiar embrace, the scent of citrus and flowers clinging to her like a second skin.
She pulls back, smiling, and steps aside. “Come in, Mari.”
I do, and the second I cross the threshold, it’s like stepping straight into the past. Nothing has changed.
The same cozy furniture, the same lace curtains softly filtering the morning light.
And by the door, the same candy dish. My candy dish.
The one I used to steal from when she babysat me, stuffing sweets into my pockets.
I reach for one now, fingers closing around a little strawberry candy, my movements pure muscle memory. Some things never change.
As I follow her into the kitchen, my nerves start to creep back in. I can do this. I can do this. Ruth pours two cups of coffee. “Cream and sugar?”
I nod, fidgeting with my fingers. “Yeah, just one.”
She hands me my cup, and then sits across from me at the table. Her sharp eyes scan my face. “Alright, Mari. Talk to me. What’s on your mind?”
I take a huge gulp of coffee, buying myself time. “Mmm.”
She raises a brow, her eyes roaming over me, taking in my posture. “I don’t remember you ever being this nervous around me.”
“No, no, I’m totally comfortable! It’s not you! I’ve just had… a weird couple of days. A weird couple of months, really. Well, the past year has been weird.” I stand up and start pacing. Ruth’s eyes follow me like a cat tracking a laser pointer. Here goes nothing.
“So, yeah,” I start, my words tumbling out faster than I can catch them.
“You know I’ve always loved The Rolling Pin ever since I was a kid.
I spent half my childhood pressed up against that front counter, watching you work your magic, waiting for you to sneak me a warm pastry when my mom wasn’t looking.
" I let out a breath, forcing myself to slow down, but the nervous energy bubbling inside me won’t let up.
“And working there as a teenager was the best. It never even felt like work. It was fun, it was exciting, and it was…” I throw my hands up, searching for the right words. “It was home. That place was home for me.”
Ruth watches me, eyes twinkling with patience, but I can’t stop now. The dam has burst.
“And I really love to bake, you know that, right?” I fidget with my fingers, my knee bouncing under the table.
“Like, I really love to bake. I don’t think I ever told you this, but when I was in Seattle, I picked up catering gigs just so I could bake for people again.
Nothing crazy, but every time someone took a bite of something I made and smiled—Ruth, I missed that feeling. ”
I exhale sharply, trying to rein myself in, but it’s a lost cause.
“Learning from you was a dream. You have so much talent, Ruth. I mean, did you go to culinary school? I don’t think I’ve ever asked that.
Or business school? What about a secret bakery society where they teach people how to make perfect frosting swirls?
Why have I never asked these things before? ”
She chuckles softly, but I barrel on.
“I guess because I never thought I’d be standing here right now.” My throat tightens as reality crashes into me. I grip the coffee cup in front of me, staring down at the dark liquid, willing my hands to stop shaking. “But here I am.”
I take a deep breath, forcing myself to look up to meet her gaze.
“I just want you to know that I think you’re incredible, Ruth.
And I love The Rolling Pin so much. I swear I’d do right by it.
I wouldn’t have to change a thing. Okay, well, maybe a couple of things?
But not like a lot. Just enough to make it my own, you know?
But I’d keep its heart. I’d keep everything that makes it special.
” I swallow hard, words suddenly catching in my throat.
“It can be my love letter to this town. My way of showing my appreciation for everything it’s given me—for you, for my parents, for the people who have always been here for me.”
I press my lips together, suddenly panicked that I’ve said too much.
I brace for her reaction. What the hell am I even saying?
I exhale sharply. I completely screwed this up.
Ruth is staring at me, her mouth slightly open.
Probably horrified by the absolute mess of words that just fell out of my mouth.
Shit. She’s never going to sell me the bakery.
I can’t even string together a proper sentence.
I just ruined this before it even started.
Ruth waves her hands in the air like she’s trying to slow down a runaway train. “Mariana. Breathe. Sit down. I have no idea what you just said, and I think we need to start over.”
I nod, dropping into my chair like a sack of flour.
“Now,” she says patiently. “Before we start this conversation again, I want you to breathe in for three beats, then out for three.”
I do as she says. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. I feel lighter.
Ruth places her hands over mine, her touch warm and grounding. “There you go. Now, start over.”
I look at her hands—aged, steady, filled with love. She’s right. I’ve never been afraid to talk to her. I lift my gaze, finding new determination. “I want to buy ‘The Rolling Pin’.”
Ruth squeezes my hands, and I brace for the letdown. Instead, she studies me carefully. “Are you sure, honey? You’ve always had one foot out the door in this town. I need to know you’re really staying—not just for now, but for good.”
Her words settle over me, heavy and real, the type of truth I can’t ignore. “I’m sure,” I say, my voice steady. “I’m staying.”.
Ruth watches me for a long moment before her lips curve into a wide grin.“Well, it’s about damn time.”
I blink. Once. Twice. Did my brain just imagine that? Surely, she actually said, "No damn way," and I just heard it wrong.
"I’m sorry, can you repeat that?"
Ruth chuckles. "I said, Mariana, it’s about damn time."
My jaw drops. "I don’t think I understand."
She leans forward, eyes twinkling. “Mari, I’ve been hoping you’d want to take over the bakery someday.
I trust only you with my place. I trained you, I taught you everything I know.
I know that no one, and I mean no one, will love it like you will.
You moving to Seattle was just a blip. Marrying that Andrew fellow—well, we don’t have to talk about that.
But in my heart, I always knew you’d find your way back home.
Back to what was meant to be yours.” Her voice is warm, unwavering.
I feel tears prick my eyes.
"You were always meant for this."
I let out a shaky breath. "Thank you, Ruth. Thank you for believing in me. I swear I won’t let you down."
She laughs, squeezing my hand. "I’m not worried about that at all."
Then she leans back, smirking. “And Mari? If you want to change a few things, go for it. Make it yours.”
I rise to my feet, heart pounding, Ruth standing beside me. She walks me to the door, pulling me into another hug before whispering in my ear: “The place is yours, Mari.”
I step outside, walking to my car in a daze. I did it. I own ‘The Rolling Pin.’ The Rocky soundtrack is playing in my head as I mentally pump my fist in the air.
I freaking did it.