14. Bianca
BIANCA
My employees are in the back, getting the baked goods ready for the day. And I walk through the storefront to turn on the lights, so we can start arranging the display case.
Theo Sawyer is at my front door, and he’s waving at me like we’re old friends.
We are not old friends. In fact, last night, after his dad pulled that little stunt, I made it very clear that we are not friends. I want to forget we ever met.
But it’s cold outside, and I’m not like him.
He’s a jerk. I’m not.
I exhale and walk to the door.
“We’re not open yet,” I tell him. “Eliza will unlock the doors in thirty minutes.”
“I know. I wanted to talk to you before you opened.”
This is a bad idea, and I’m not falling for his charm. Because what if I do, and then he’s as manipulative as his father.
I don’t step aside to let him in. “You should go home, Theo.”
“Bianca.” His tone is pleading. “I came to apologize.”
I wave a hand dismissively. “You apologized last night.”
“Not enough.”
My thumb finds my birthmark inside of my wrist on its own.
“Theo, I have a lot to do today. I don’t have time for this.”
“Show me where the butter is,” he says. “I’ll help you bake. I will help you ring up customers. I will even wash dishes. I just want your time.”
I stop talking.
He tries again. “I can follow instructions.”
It’s cold outside, and holding the door open is making the bakery cold.
I wave him inside. “Eliza is handling the bakery today. I have to drive to Elk Cove.”
“What’s in Elk Cove?”
I sigh. “My landlord.”
“What did he do?”
“What hasn’t he done?” I cross to the back, weaving between the prep tables, and he follows.
I grab my insulated travel mug off the shelf, fill it from the carafe of coffee, and screw the lid on tight.
“The heat in my apartment is dying. The radiator clangs every twenty minutes, then blows room-temperature air. I’ve been calling and emailing him for a week about this.
But I’ve been contacting him much longer for everything else. ”
“He hasn’t replied?” he asks.
“He sends one-line replies that say he’ll look into it. He’s looked into nothing. There’s a snowstorm rolling in tonight, and I am not going to sit in my apartment in three sweaters. So, I’m driving up there to stand in his office and make him deal with me face to face.”
I duck into my office and grab the manila folder I prepped last night, which includes copies of every email, the call logs, and the lease. I tuck it under my arm.
“I’ll come with you.”
“No.” I pass him on the way back out, snag my purse off the hook.
“Bianca, let me help.”
“No, Theo.” I pull my coat down. “I was serious when I told you we need to forget we ever met.”
“But I can be convincing.”
I almost laugh. It comes out as half a breath. “I bet you can.”
I shrug the coat on. He moves to help me with it. I sidestep him and do my own buttons.
“Let me drive you, at least. If it snows, the roads are going to be terrible.”
“Goodbye, Theo.” I grab my keys from the bowl by the back door and walk outside.
The cold hits me in the face. The sky is already gray, promising snow.
I walk over to my car and slide into the driver’s seat. I jam the key in and turn it.
Click.
I turn it again.
Click. A wheeze. Nothing.
“Shoot.”
Click. Click. Click.
I rest my forehead on the steering wheel.
There’s a knock on the window.
I don’t look up. I know exactly who’s standing there.
He knocks again. “I have a car that works. My offer to drive you still stands.”
I lift my head a half inch. “It’s three hours away.”
“Then I get to spend the day with you.” He pauses. “Not the day I planned. But I’ll take it.”
I hate him. I hate him a lot.
But I need heat. And my need for heat is stronger than my need to hate him.
This is a terrible idea, Donovan.
“Fine.” I push the door open and step out into the cold. “But I’m still not forgiving you.”
“Understood.”
He drives a black SUV that smells like new leather and the faintest trace of his cologne. And darn it, I’m attracted to him, and he makes me furious. But my stomach does this weird thing when I’m close to him.
This is a problem I’ll be revisiting at my next therapy appointment.
I look out the window. The radio plays something instrumental and low.
He doesn’t say anything, probably hoping that I’ll break the silence.
But nope. I’m not going to do that thing where I try to fill awkward silences to make the other person comfortable. He can sit here and be uncomfortable. In fact, I’d prefer him to be uncomfortable.
Then he speaks. “We used to come out this way with my mother.”
Ugh. I want to ignore him, but he’s talking about his mother. And no matter how angry I am with him, I want to hear about her. Processing that kind of grief is not something anyone should have to do alone.
I turn my head. “To Elk Cove?”
“There’s an orchard about ten miles past it.
She’d take us in the fall. Just us. No staff, no driver.
She drove. Ander and Gideon would bicker the entire way about who was going to pick the most apples.
I remember being eight and thinking my mother was the strongest person alive, the way she could hear two of us fighting in the back seat and sing along to the radio at the same time.
” He keeps his eyes on the road. “She died seven months later.”
My eyes water, and my throat clenches, remembering my own pain. I look back at the window.
“Hold onto memories like that. She’d want you to have those.”
“You lost your mom, too.”
I nod.
A few miles pass. Snow is starting to fall; it’s early, but I don’t think anything of it as the wipers move at a monotonous rhythm.
“What was your mom like?” he asks.
I look over at him. He’s still watching the road.
My first instinct is not to engage. He’s a Sawyer, and this particular Sawyer does not get pieces of me. Not after everything.
But then I think about her. About how the only place she lives now is in the stories the people who loved her still tell. If I stop telling them, she gets smaller. And I am not letting her get smaller.
I decide to share a memory with him. A sweet one. One that really shaped who I am today.
“My dad left when I was seven. Didn’t come back.
The kids at school figured out pretty quickly that I didn’t have one, and a few of them got creative about it.
” I watch a single snowflake hit the side mirror and refuse to melt.
“I came home crying one day. She didn’t tell me they were wrong, or that it wasn’t true.
She handed me a wooden spoon, sat me on the counter, and we made a chocolate cake from scratch.
And while it was baking, she told me that I’m clever, and funny, and I have a big heart.
It’s not my job to convince anyone of my worth.
And she told me to save the best version of myself for people who value me for who I am. And forget the ones who don’t.”
The snowflake finally melts, and water trickles down the mirror.
“I think about it almost every day.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. “I haven’t been one of those people. I know that.”
“No, you haven’t,” I tell him. “But I wasn’t thinking about you when I told you that. That advice is what gave me the strength to stand up to you in the first place.”
“I’d like to earn the best version of you. Someday.” He keeps his eyes on the road. “Your mom raised somebody she’d be proud of.”
My heart warms at that.
I look back at the window before he can see how his words affected me.
We drive in silence for a few more miles. The snow is steady now, not heavy yet, pretty outside the window.
He breaks the silence again.
“I haven’t done a good job apologizing to you, Bianca.” His thumb taps once against the steering wheel. “I want you to tell me what would make it right.”
“That’s not how apologies work.”
“I know. But I’m asking.”
I scrape my nail along the stitching of the seatbelt, thinking. “A public apology.”
His hands tighten on the wheel. He pulls in a breath through his teeth and doesn’t say anything for a long beat. The wipers tick. “I can’t.”
“Yeah.” I turn back to the window. “Figured.”
He glances at me, then back at the road. “If I issue a public apology, my father will read it as a confession of fault on behalf of the company. He will retaliate. Against you, first.”
I let that sit. “So, you can’t apologize publicly because of your dad.”
He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t deflect. “I know that’s fucked up. I’m thirty years old. And to be honest, I don’t care what he does to me. But if I stand up to him, he could hurt my brothers… or you. And I do care about that.”
I hate that I believe him.
So, I do something. I reach over and squeeze his hand. Once. Then I let go and fold my hands back in my lap.
He looks over at me and smiles. It’s brief, but it’s genuine.
He’s not forgiven, of course. But maybe I can hate him a little less.
I pull out my phone and check the forecast. More snow than they said. Sooner than they said. If I had known, I wouldn’t have left the bakery.
“Theo, the storm is coming in faster than they thought.”
I face the phone in his direction.
He looks and grimaces. “We’re more than halfway there. We can’t really turn back.”
No, I guess we can’t.
The landlord’s office sits above a hardware store on the main street of a town with a population of three thousand. The snow is light but steady when we pull up.
I unbuckle.
Theo follows me to the top of the stairs and into a lobby that fits one person comfortably and us awkwardly.
Whatever I say in the next room, he will hear. I tell him to wait in the lobby anyway.
I walk into the office without an invitation.
Mr. Bartley is in his late sixties, with a coffee stain on his shirt and belly that has enjoyed a few too many burgers and beers.
His office smells like microwaved soup, and I scrunch up my nose at the stench.
He looks up when I walk in, but he doesn’t stand.
He rolls his eyes, and my face gets warm with anger.
“What are you doing here, Miss Donovan?”
I take a deep breath. “Mr. Bartley. The heat in my unit is failing. I’ve contacted you multiple times.”