Chapter 2
Tess
My room is cold. My sheets are warm. My bones feel like they have been poured full of cement.
For one full second, I consider pretending I did not hear the alarm. I could. I could roll over, bury my face in the pillow, and let the bakery open itself. Let the sourdough feed itself. Let the ovens preheat themselves. Let the city feed itself.
Then the image hits me, automatic and sharp. A silent, dark shop. The starter unfed. The morning buns unbaked. The regulars staring at a locked door. Everything I worked for, everything Meemaw worked for, gone.
I sit up.
“Ok,” I whisper into the dark, like I am negotiating with my own body. “Ok.”
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, and my feet find the floor.
I shuffle to the bathroom and flick on the light.
The mirror gives me exactly what I expected.
Hair sticking up in the back. A line of drool dried into my cheek like a watermark.
Eyes that look like they have been trying to solve a math problem all night.
I splash cold water on my face. The sting is immediate and grounding. I pull my hair back into a bun so tight it feels like it is holding my brain in place. Clean apron. Clean shirt. Clean pants. There is flour dust on everything I own, permanently, like I am haunted by wheat.
I step into my pants and pause. They go on, but they do not forgive. The waistband is snug in a way it was not last year. Or the year before. I tell myself it is the holidays, then remind myself the holidays were four months ago.
I grab my keys, my phone, and the little notebook I pretend I do not need.
On the way out, I pause with my hand on the doorknob. The city outside is still asleep. The hallway is silent. I can hear my own breathing. Meemaw would be proud of me.
I keep my hood up and walk fast. Three blocks. Past the closed liquor store. Past the corner bodega with its neon OPEN 24 HOURS sign that never blinks. Past the posters for the upcoming Grizzlies hockey game.
Then I see it.
Sunrise and Salt.
I go around back and unlock the metal alley door. The key sticks, like it always does. I twist harder. It finally gives with a reluctant click.
I step inside and pull the door shut behind me.
Everything is exactly where I left it. Except immediately, I know I am not alone.
There is a rustle in the walk-in. The soft slam of a milk crate shifting. A muttered curse that sounds like someone arguing with an inanimate object as if it has personally offended them.
“Morning, boss,” Gwen calls, her voice muffled by the walk-in door.
I do not even have to see her to smile.
“Morning, Gwen,” I call back. “Please tell me you fed the starter.”
“Please tell me you slept more than four hours,” she shoots back, and I can hear the grin in her voice.
Gwen steps out carrying a plastic Cambro like it is a newborn. She already has flour on her cheek. Her apron is crooked, like she tied it while moving. Her hair is in a messy bun that looks like it survived a small storm.
She looks me up and down.
“You look like death,” she announces.
“You look like you slept in the walk-in,” I joke back.
“I considered it,” she replies. “It is peaceful. No phones. No dreams. Just dairy.”
I take the Cambro from her and crack the lid.
The starter is alive. Bubbly. Thick. It smells tangy and sweet, the kind of smell that makes you think of apples, beer, and warm bread all at once.
“Auntie June is dramatic today,” Gwen reports, leaning on the counter. “She bubbled like she had something to prove.”
“Good,” I say. “So do we.”
Gwen gives me a look, half amused and half fond, like she is humoring my motivational poster tendencies.
We fall into our rhythm.
Gwen hits the coffee machine button like it is a ceremonial act.
“Bless you,” I mutter, and she does not even look up.
She slides me a mug. Black. One sugar. No questions. No fuss.
I take the first sip. It is terrible, like always, and I love it anyway because it is consistent. It is there.
“You’re in early,” I say, watching her peel parchment off a butter block.
“You seemed stressed last night,” Gwen says, like she is reading from a report. “I figured I could either show up ten minutes late and see you miserable, or show up ten minutes early and see you miserable.”
“That is very supportive,” I laugh.
“I am supportive in the way a seatbelt is supportive,” she says. “Restraining. Necessary.”
I chuckle, and it feels like the first real breath I have taken today.
I check the proof on yesterday’s brioche. It is domed and puffy, ready to bake. Gwen pokes it like she is testing a marshmallow.
The oven's heat hits me in the face when I open the door. It is a sharp, dry warmth that makes my eyes water and my shoulders relax at the same time. Like a sauna that wants to cook you alive.
I load the trays. Close the door. Set the timer.
At 5:10, Gwen starts humming along to the radio. Off key. She always hums. I used to find it annoying. Now it is like a lighthouse sound. If Gwen is humming, the world has not ended yet.
At 5:30, she starts talking to the dough.
“Don’t be like that,” she mutters, coaxing the butter into a clean rectangle. “We talked about this.”
“We absolutely did not,” I say, sliding another bowl onto the scale.
“She knows what she did,” Gwen replies, dead serious.
I smile despite myself and keep working.
At 5:45, the first tray goes into the oven.
Steam whooshes. Heat blooms. The smell changes instantly, from warm butter and sugar to dough turning into something more.
“This,” Gwen says, hands on her hips, “is going to be a good bake.”
“You say that every day.”
“And statistically,” she replies, “I am not wrong.”
The front lights flip on. The OPEN sign hums to life, a soft neon buzz like an invitation.
We take our positions. I go up front. Gwen stays back. Same division of labor as always. I handle the people. Gwen handles the chaos.
I am built for the front because I am better at swallowing the urge to commit minor crimes when someone asks if we have gluten-free croissants.
The bell jingles at 6:01 a.m.
Mr. Henderson, retired, is punctual and loyal to a fault.
“Morning, ladies,” he says. “Smells dangerous in here.”
“Good morning, dear,” I say, smiling. “The usual?”
“Would not dream of changing it,” he says. The line behind him is not even there yet, but he glances over his shoulder as if checking his place in it.
Gwen appears at the pass-through like a bakery goblin, sets down his order: coffee, a morning bun, a cardamom twist, and disappears again.
Mr. Henderson takes the bag like it is precious.
“You’re a miracle worker,” he tells me for the thousandth time.
“Tell that to my back,” I say.
He laughs and shuffles out. The bell jingles again.
Two minutes later, the second customer comes in. Then another.
By 6:30, the line starts.
Behind me, I hear Gwen call out times.
“Brioche out in two!”
“Boss, we are low on baguettes. Did you want me to pull the backup?”
“Do it,” I call back without looking.
This is how we talk. Short. Precise. Like we are running a ship.
I do not have to micromanage Gwen. We trust each other.
That trust did not happen instantly. It was built the hard way.
Over burns and ruined batches, and shifts where we did not speak because we were too tired to be nice.
Over late nights scrubbing pans and early mornings, where one of us showed up with a coffee and no questions asked.
It was built when my oven died the first winter, and Gwen stayed until midnight helping me bake everything off in borrowed ovens from a restaurant friend.
It was built when Gwen’s dad got sick. She disappeared for three days, and I covered her shifts without complaining because that is what you do for someone you love.
I smile to myself and ring up the next customer.
Around 9:30, the first problem hits, because there is always a problem.
A delivery guy bangs on the back door, late and irritated. Gwen opens it, and I hear her say, “Buddy, if you throw that milk crate like that again, I will personally stuff you in the proofing cabinet.”
His laugh comes through the door, as if he thinks she is joking. She is not.
At 11:30, the rush starts to fade. The regulars taper off. The tourists wander in and ask which pastry is the most Chicagoan.
I tell them the cardamom twist because it is my favorite, and Chicago is a vibe, not a flavor.
At 12:15, Gwen slides me a half croissant on a napkin like she is feeding a stray cat.
“You should eat,” she says.
“Yes, mom,” I reply, but I do eat.
The butter crackles on my tongue. It is perfect.
Sometimes, in the middle of all this, I forget to be grateful. I get so wrapped up in the scarcity of money, time, staff, and energy that I do not let myself feel the small wins.
This croissant is a win.
The fact that we are still open is a win.
When I open my eyes, Gwen is watching me with that satisfied look she gets when she successfully tricks me into taking care of myself.
“What?” I speak.
She shrugs. “Nothing. You looked less murder for five seconds.”
I slide her a second croissant. “Eat,” I tell her.
Her eyebrows lift like she is genuinely touched.
Then she ruins it by saying, “Wow. Tess Bennett. Generosity. Mark the calendar.”
“Shut up,” I laugh.
She takes the croissant anyway, smiling. Working with Gwen has been the most joyful part of owning the bakery.
Gwen scrubs sheet pans while singing along to the radio, loud enough that I can hear her from the office.
It is not good singing.
It is enthusiastic, defiant singing. Like she is daring the universe to criticize her.
I am in the back office, tiny, cramped, barely an office, going over invoices and scheduling. I have a spreadsheet open, and my stomach tightens automatically.
Numbers are always the part that threatens to kill the joy. Dough is honest. Dough tells you what it needs. Numbers just sit there and accuse you.
Gwen knocks on the doorframe with her elbow because her hands are wet.
“Hey,” she says. “You good?”
“Fine,” I lie.
I look at her. Flour on her cheek again. Sweat on her forehead. Her apron stained like a map of the day.
She is tired too. She is just better at hiding it behind jokes.
At 2:40, the last customer leaves. I flip the sign to CLOSED.
Gwen locks the front door with the kind of finality that feels like shutting the world out.
We exhale, both of us, like we have been holding our breath for twelve hours.
“This place is insane,” I say softly.
“It is,” Gwen agrees. “But it is ours.”
The same words, again, and they hit the same place in my chest.
I do not say anything for a second. Then I nod.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
Gwen pushes off the counter and stretches, her back popping loudly. She grabs her bag, tosses her apron into her locker, and pauses at the back door.
“Eat dinner,” she says.
“Yes, mom.”
She flips me off with affection and disappears into the alley.
The door shuts. The lock clicks.
Silence.
I stand there for a moment in the middle of my bakery, alone, listening to the hum of the refrigerators and the settling creak of cooling metal.
It is quiet. It is safe.
I turn off the lights one by one, leaving the front window dark.
Tomorrow, we do it again.