Chapter 7 #3
Farmor sighs, folding her arms over her chest. There’s a long pause, then, “I’ll admit, he seems like a very nice young man to me.
But if he’s treated you otherwise . . . I’m sorry to hear it.
” She shakes her head, rueful. “Will you at least try to reach a truce of sorts with him? For the sake of our bakery?”
You haven’t really given me a choice, I think.
But having her call it our bakery cuts through my anger, exposing a layer of fetid guilt beneath.
I swallow. “I’ll try, Farmor.” Her mouth opens to say more, so I hurry to add, “I need to go. I’ve been here since the crack of dawn, and I have a headache. ”
I’m reaching for my purse when Farmor asks, “Olivia, why are you so afraid of love?”
I barely resist throwing my hands in the air. “Telling you I don’t think Hunter is attracted to me doesn’t mean I’m afraid of love.” I pull the cross-body bag over my head and fish in it for my car keys.
“I’m not referring to Hunter. I’ve wondered this for some time.”
“Then why are you bringing it up now?” My head already hurts. I don’t need to rip open any wounds in my heart as well.
She crosses the space between us. “I’ve learned that when we feel a nudge to speak, especially when the timing feels all wrong, it’s often because the words matter most in that moment, even if they’re not easy to hear.
And I have ignored this nudging too many times to let you walk away again without finding the courage to finally say something.
” Farmor cups my face, her soft, smooth hand tender on my cheek.
She smells of her favorite subtle lotion mixed with a hint of butter and brown sugar.
Even after her hand drops back to her side, her eyes don’t leave mine.
“My sweet girl, you used to at least date, to allow yourself hope. Now you don’t even do that.
You’ve made this bakery your whole life, when I only ever wanted it to be something you loved.
It was never meant to be your entire existence.
You’re shutting yourself away, sotnos, and I’m afraid for you. For the loneliness you’re choosing.”
Not even the musical lilt of her Swedish accent can soften the blow of her words.
They spear through me, sharp and true, striking bone.
For half a second, I consider bringing up Austin, how I even let him kiss me.
Until I remember I still haven’t responded to the text he sent this morning, asking me out again.
My protest dies at the back of my throat, half choking me.
Farmor’s gaze is relentless. Piercing. She’s silent now, waiting.
I’m not closing myself off. I’m cautious—and how could I not be?
What my mom went through after my dad’s death still haunts me, stalking me through my nightmares, a shadow I refuse to acknowledge that lingers in the corners of our lives.
I’ve seen up close what happens when the life you dream of together is ripped away all too soon, blown up in your faces, and you’re left holding only ashes where love once burned.
I’ve lived inside the abyss that can swallow a person whole as the shattered scraps of your heart have to somehow find a way to keep beating when you don’t want to face another day without the love of your life.
Except, in my case, I am that bomb—waiting to detonate and blast apart every life that touches mine. If anyone ever were willing to take that chance on me, how could I consign them to that fate—knowingly?
Farmor touches my arm, drawing my attention away from the keys I’m unconsciously clenching in my closed fist.
“My beautiful Olivia, promise me you’ll keep trying. To at least give yourself a chance to find love. You deserve happiness.” My Swedish grandmother smooths back a flour-streaked strand of my hair.
I have no idea why she felt the nudge to bring this up today, when my defenses are weakened, my armor already punctured from the lunchtime meeting with Hunter.
I clench my teeth against the dark tumble of memories that threaten to rise and drag me backward through the years to that terrible, pulsing darkness I work so hard to never, ever let myself remember.
I wrestle the things I can’t say back into their holding place until I finally manage to reply.
“Everyone deserves happiness. But we don’t get to decide who actually ends up with it, do we? ”
Farmor flinches, her hand faltering.
Shame, bitter as lemon rinds, coats my mouth. Even if her timing sucks, Farmor doesn’t deserve my vitriol. “I’m sorry, that was . . . I’m just . . . I should go.” A surge of anxiety rushes up my body, crashing over me with a wave of nausea, pricking my heart into a gallop.
As I shoulder my way through the swinging doors out of the kitchen, Farmor calls after me, “Losing your father and my Anders were the hardest moments of my life. But knowing their deaths made you afraid to love is almost worse.”
The ridges of my car key dig into the palm of my hand as I let the doors fall shut behind me. I rush through the bakery, ignoring the look of concern my mother shoots me—but can do nothing about since she’s assisting a customer—and -somehow manage to make it to my car before the panic attack hits.