15. Mia
Mia
“Tell me everything,” Juno says, before I’ve got my apron on. “And don’t leave out the part where you did something catastrophically stupid.”
She’s behind the counter with her coffee, both elbows on the glass, watching me with the focus she usually saves for a client who hasn’t decided what they want yet.
The bakery is clean, the display case is full, and there’s a note tucked under the register in her handwriting.
Mr. Austin called. Again. Don’t make that face.
Call him back. She drew a tiny middle finger next to his name.
“There’s nothing to tell,” I say.
“Mia.”
“Juno.”
She waits. I tie my apron, check the proofer, wipe down the back bench that doesn’t need wiping with a cloth. She keeps waiting, coffee in hand, completely unbothered, and that’s the thing about Juno, she will out-quiet me and we both know it.
“We slept together,” I say, to the bench.
The mug goes down. “Define we.”
“Reed and I.”
“Reed Hawthorne. The one who had security walk you out of his own party.”
“I know who Reed is.”
“I’m just making sure we’re talking about the same person, because the person I’m describing sounds like someone you would absolutely never sleep with.”
I check the left oven. “It just happened.”
“Right.” She comes around the counter and plants herself across from me with her arms crossed, her chin up, and the face she makes when she’s decided to enjoy this. “How just did it happen? Scale of one to you shoved him first.”
I put the cloth down. “I shoved him first.”
She closes her eyes, then slowly opens them. “Details. Every single one. I opened this bakery at five in the morning for you and I found flour in places I didn’t know flour could get to, so I have earned this.”
So I tell her. Not the board dinner version, not the PR version, the real one.
Reed’s hand on my thigh under the table with six board members watching.
Vanessa at eleven at night, standing in the kitchen like she still owned the square footage.
Me shoving him. Him not moving. She listens with her chin on her fist, and when I get to the part about his shirt she points at me.
“You kept the shirt.”
“I gave it back.”
“But you wore it to breakfast.”
“Yes, and Harper was there.”
“Harper.” She sits up straight. “Harper saw you in his shirt at breakfast.”
“Harper was more focused on my hair than on what I was wearing. She moved on fast. She’s six.”
Juno tips her head back for a long moment, then drops her eyes back to me. “And then Vanessa went on television.”
“And then Vanessa went on television,” I say, pulling the brioche tin out of the proofer.
Juno already knows about the interview, she texted me three crying-laughing emojis when she saw it, so I don’t bother with the details.
“And now Reed called me on his way to the office, right before I arrived here. They need six months of my bank statements, the lease, supplier invoices, all of it. Proof I’m not being paid to be his fiancée.
” I set the tin on the rack. “Which I am. So.”
Juno goes quiet.
“What does Reed say?”
“That his lawyer will build an argument from whatever I send.” I start portioning the dough. “Easy thing to say when your account has more than forty-three dollars in it.”
“Forty-three dollars.”
“Forty-three dollars, Juno. That’s my personal account right now. His lawyer is going to open that document and Vanessa is going to get everything she wants.”
Juno puts her mug in the sink. She leans against the counter with her arms crossed and I can hear her working through it.
“Are you going to send them?” she asks.
I portion another piece of dough. “The bakery is three bad weeks from not existing. If my bank statements keep the hearing from going sideways, then yes, I’m going to send them and I’m going to feel sick about it the entire time.”
She nods. “Did he offer to cover the studio?”
“He said whatever you need. Equipment, contractors, anything you’ve been putting off.”
“I appreciate the offer, but my answer is and will be no,” she tells me.
“I won’t be taking his money. I’m here because you’re my person and I’m doing this for you.
The day I let a billionaire pay me for being your friend is the day it stops being about you and starts being about him.
” She unties her apron and drops it on the counter.
“Tell him no from me. Tell him I said thanks but he can keep it.”
“He’s trying to do something decent.”
“I know he is.” She pulls her jacket off the hook.
“Doesn’t change my answer.” She points at the note under the register.
“Call Mr. Austin. He’s called three times and the fourth one is going to be the ugly one.
” She pushes through the door, the front bell chimes, and then it’s just me, the brioche, forty-three dollars, and Reed’s lawyer’s list sitting on my phone that I haven’t opened since the first time.
I open it at eleven-thirty, on the back bench between the coffee rush and the lunch prep, knees pulled up, phone in both hands.
Reading it is like reading a list of every corner I’ve cut, every payment I’ve shuffled around, and every month I’ve ended up staring at the float at midnight hoping the math works out before morning.
I send Reed a voice note because I can’t manage the call. “I’m sending them,” I say. “I hate this. I just want you to know I hate this.” I put the phone face-down, open the email from his lawyer, and start pulling documents.
Knox walks in at ten past twelve like the door was already open for him.
“We’re not open,” I say, without turning around.
“The sign says open.” He goes straight for the display case like he’s been here a hundred times, like the croissants belong to him and I’m the one visiting.
He takes one, leans against the counter, and bites into it.
I keep stacking the afternoon trays and wait, because I doubt he came here for the croissant.
“How much did Celeste tell you?” I ask when he doesn’t say anything.
“Enough.” He brushes the crumbs from his fingers.
“Reed didn’t ask me to come. He doesn’t know I’m here.
” He looks around the bakery, taking it in.
“My brother runs everything on a tight leash. The board, the lawyers, Harper’s whole life, Walsh, all of it.
He’s had a hand on every moving piece for the last two years.
” He puts the napkin down. “He doesn’t have a hand on you.
I don’t think he knows what to do about that. ” He grins. “Don’t break him.”
I open my mouth.
“I know,” he says, before I get there. “You didn’t sign up for any of this.” He moves to the door, stops with his hand on it. “Best croissant I’ve ever had, by the way. Don’t tell Reed I said anything nice about his fiancée.” The door closes behind him.
I stand in the middle of my bakery with flour on my hands and Knox’s opinion lodged somewhere I can’t shake it loose from, and I go back to stacking trays because there’s nothing else to do with it right now.
Reed texts at two-fifteen. Stuck in Walsh prep. Would you mind getting Harper? Lucia has a family thing.
I look at the text, look at the trays I’ve just finished stacking, and type back: I have legs, don’t I.
Three dots appear. Then: Thank you.
I close up the back, swap my apron for my jacket, and get to the school with three minutes to spare. The pickup line is moving, parents, nannies, and one grandfather with a folded newspaper under his arm. I stand at the gate and wait.
Harper comes out with her rabbit tucked under her arm, scanning faces, working down the line until she finds mine. She doesn’t run. She walks over at her own pace and lets me take her bag without being asked.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi yourself. How was school?”
“Tobias knocked over my volcano,” she says. “But he apologized so it’s okay.”
“How big was the apology?”
“He said sorry twice.” She considers this as we walk. “The second one was better.”
She tells me about the volcano repairs, the new moat she added around the base.
“It keeps the lava in,” she explains, “because otherwise it just goes everywhere and that’s not a volcano, that’s just a mess.”
I ask how wide and she holds up two fingers pressed together. “This wide. Tobias said it should be bigger but Tobias knocked over my volcano so he doesn’t get a vote.”
I’m about to ask what happened to Tobias’ volcano when she stops walking.
“Next Friday is Donuts With Grownups,” she says.
I stop beside her. “What’s Donuts With Grownups?”
“You bring a grownup and there are donuts,” she says. “Mrs. Hyde says it can be any grownup.” She tips her chin up, rabbit pressed to her chest. “You could come. If you wanted.”
She’s asking me to walk into her school and sit next to her in front of her whole class, with the custody hearing in eight days and Vanessa’s interview still circling. But she doesn’t know about any of that. She wants donuts and someone to bring, and she picked me.
“Next Friday,” I say.
She nods.
“I’ll be there.”
She reaches up and takes my hand, three of her fingers around two of mine, and we cross the parking lot. I catch the phone two cars down before I can do anything about it, a woman in a dark coat, screen up, aimed right at us. Harper’s hand in mine, mid-step, afternoon light flat across the asphalt.
The shutter fires.
I know exactly what that photo looks like. Harper’s hand in mine, her rabbit under her arm, the two of us crossing the parking lot like we’ve done this a hundred times. I know what caption writes itself underneath it. I know whose lawyer gets sent the link before the evening is out.
“Can we get hot chocolate?” Harper asks, pulling my hand toward the car.
“Yeah,” I say. “We can get hot chocolate.”