Chapter Thirty-Three
Elliott had never been good at apologies. Or feelings. Or, frankly, anything that required her to admit she might have been wrong about something. Or admit that she actually had feelings.
Which was becoming a problem, because she was increasingly certain she'd been wrong about quite a lot. And that she had those pesky feelings.
She sat at Shay's tiny kitchen table, staring at a cup of coffee she hadn't touched, while Milly's words played on a loop in her head. All that stuff about helping, about stepping in when we love someone, and from even earlier, about how love was just what humans did.
And the thing was, Milly wasn't wrong. Elliott knew she wasn't wrong.
She'd spent the whole night replaying everything in her head. Every moment with Julia. Every conversation. Every time Julia had looked at her with those ridiculous hopeful eyes, like Elliott was someone. Really someone. Someone worth believing in. Someone worth… loving.
Julia had been trying to help. That was all. She'd seen Elliott struggling, seen her pride getting in the way, and she'd done something about it. The same way Julia always did something about everything, by caring too much and trying too hard and putting everyone else's needs before her own.
And Elliott had reacted by... what? Accusing her of betrayal? Storming out? Acting like Julia had committed some unforgivable crime by believing in her?
God, she was an idiot.
The coffee had gone cold ages ago. Elliott wrapped her hands around the mug anyway, needing something to hold onto.
"You're brooding again."
Elliott looked up to find Shay leaning against the doorframe in a dressing gown covered in cartoon cats, holding her own mug of coffee like a weapon.
"I'm thinking."
"Same thing with you." Shay dropped into the chair across from her. "You've been sitting here for hours. That's a lot of thinking, even by your broody standards."
Elliott opened her mouth. Closed it. Tried again. The words felt like they were stuck somewhere around her sternum, refusing to cooperate.
"I need," she said finally, each word extracted like a splinter, "help."
Shay's eyebrows shot up so high they nearly disappeared into her hairline. "I'm sorry, did Elliott Sinclair just ask me for help? The woman who once tried to remove her own stitches rather than go back to the doctor?"
"That was different. That was a medical thing."
"It was insane, is what it was." But Shay was grinning now, delighted. "Well, well. Makes a nice change, you asking for help. I should mark the calendar. Frame this moment. Tell my grandchildren about it."
"I'm working on it," Elliott muttered. "Being… better. At that."
Shay's expression softened. She reached across the table and squeezed Elliott's hand. "I know you are. And I'm proud of you. Even if you do look like you'd rather be asking for my kidney than asking for my help."
"Yeah, well, this isn’t in my natural skill set." Elliott took a breath. "It's about Julia."
"Shocking absolutely no one." Shay settled back in her chair, crossing her legs. "Go on, then. Unburden yourself. I'm an excellent listener when I'm not distracted by my own romantic disasters."
"I was wrong. About everything. She was trying to help me with the cookbook, and I treated her like she'd stabbed me in the back.
And now I need to apologize, but I don't know how, because I'm terrible at this, and also I might have feelings for her.
Actual feelings. The kind that don't go away when you ignore them, and believe me, I've tried.
And I have no idea what to do about any of it. "
The words came out in a rush, tumbling over each other like they'd been dammed up too long. Which, to be fair, they had.
Shay was staring at her. "Elliott Sinclair. Did you just admit to having feelings? Out loud? With words?"
"Don't make it weird."
"It's already weird. You've made it weird by being emotionally honest. I don't know how to process this." Shay leaned forward, eyes bright. "Are you sure about her? Julia, I mean. Really sure?"
Elliott laughed, though there wasn't much humor in it. "No. How am I supposed to be sure? Being sure implies I have any idea what I'm doing, which I categorically do not."
"Okay, different question." Shay tapped her fingers against her mug, thinking. "Does she make you feel like you could change the world? Like you could do anything?"
Elliott considered this. "No."
Shay's face fell slightly. "Oh."
"She makes me feel like changing myself, though.
" Elliott stared at her untouched coffee, trying to find the right words.
Words had never been her strong suit. That was what baking was for.
"Like… becoming a better person. A more open person.
Someone who doesn't push everyone away because it's easier than risking getting hurt.
" She shrugged awkwardly. "She makes me want to be the kind of person who deserves someone like her. "
There was a long silence.
When Elliott looked up, Shay was blinking rapidly, her eyes suspiciously bright. "Are you crying?"
"No." Shay wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her cat dressing gown. "Shut up. I have allergies."
"It's November."
"Seasonal allergies are unpredictable." Shay sniffed loudly.
"That's even better, you know. What you said.
Wanting to change the world is… that's ego.
That's about you. But wanting to be better?
Wanting to deserve someone?" She shook her head.
"That's the real thing, El. That's what actually matters. "
Elliott felt something in her chest loosen, just a little. Like a knot she hadn't known was there had started to come undone. "So what do I do?"
"Keep it simple." Shay leaned forward. "Go to the bakery.
Tell Julia exactly what you just told me.
All of it. The apology, the feelings, the wanting to be better.
Don't overthink it, don't plan some elaborate speech, don't try to protect yourself by keeping something back. Just… be honest. Completely honest."
"Honesty," Elliott winced. "That sounds terrifying."
"Yep, it definitely is." Shay grinned. "Now go. Before you lose your nerve and decide to move to Scotland and become a hermit."
Elliott stood, her chair scraping against the floor. "Scotland's not a bad idea, actually. Good whisky. Nice mountains. Very few opportunities for emotional vulnerability."
"Go."
THE WALK TO the bakery felt endless. Every step was an opportunity to turn around, to convince herself this was a terrible idea, to retreat into the comfortable isolation she'd built around herself like armor.
She didn't turn around.
She did, however, stick her tongue out at Candice’s bakery when she went past it.
The bell above the door of Sweet Oakhaven chimed when she pushed it open, and Tom looked up from behind the counter. His face went through several expressions in quick succession, surprise, concern, something that might have been hope.
"Elliott. Hey."
"Is Julia here?"
Tom's face fell. "No. She went out a while ago. Seemed like she had something on her mind, but she didn't say where she was going. I don't actually know."
Of course. Of course Julia wasn't here. Elliott had finally worked up the courage to do something brave and emotionally honest, and the universe was laughing at her. Typical.
"Right." She stood awkwardly in the middle of the shop, unsure what to do with herself. The display cases were half-empty again. "I'll just… wait then. If that's okay?"
Tom nodded, looking relieved. "Yeah, of course. Make yourself at home. You know where everything is."
She did know. That was the problem. This place had felt like hers for so long, and then she'd walked away from it. From Julia. From everything that had started to feel like home.
She drifted toward the kitchen. She'd spent hundreds of hours here. Thousands, probably. First with Milly, then alone, then with Julia hovering nearby, asking questions and making messes and generally being impossible to ignore.
Her hands were shaking. She hated that they were shaking. But standing here, waiting, not knowing when Julia would return or what she'd say when she did… the nervous energy had nowhere to go.
So she did what she always did when the world felt like too much.
She baked.
She didn't plan it. Didn't think about what she was making.
Her hands moved on autopilot, reaching for flour and sugar and butter, falling into rhythms she could do in her sleep.
The kitchen came alive around her, mixer whirring, oven preheating, the soft thump of dough against the counter.
Everything else faded away. The anxiety, the uncertainty, the terrifying vulnerability of what she was about to do.
There was only this: the precise alchemy of ingredients becoming something more than the sum of their parts.
It was only when the first batch was in the oven that she realized what she'd made.
Lemon drizzle biscuits. Julia's favorite.
And the dough rising on the counter was for those ridiculous chocolate-orange twists Julia had been obsessed with since week two. And the mixture she was about to pipe into shells was for the raspberry macaroons Julia had once eaten an entire batch of while claiming she was "just taste-testing."
She was baking Julia's favorites without even thinking about it. Every single thing was something Julia had loved.
"Oh," Elliott said to the empty kitchen. "Well. That's not subtle at all."
"What's not subtle?"
Elliott spun around. Jamie was standing in the kitchen doorway, looking rumpled and slightly out of breath, like he'd walked here quickly. Or possibly run.
"Nothing." She wiped her floury hands on her apron. "What are you doing here?"
"I could ask you the same thing." He looked around the kitchen, taking in the organized chaos of baking in progress. Bowls and measuring cups everywhere, the sweet scent of biscuits filling the air. "Though I think I can guess."
"I'm waiting for Julia." Elliott straightened her shoulders. If she was going to be brave, she might as well start now. "I'm going to tell her the truth. About how I feel. About everything."
Jamie's face did something strange. The color drained from it, leaving him looking oddly pale beneath his usual healthy glow.
"What?" Elliott frowned. "What is it?"
"Um… there might," Jamie said slowly, "be a problem."
"What kind of problem?"
He ran a hand through his hair, looking guilty. More than guilty. He looked like a man who'd made a terrible mistake and was only just realizing it. "I might have… encouraged Julia to do something. To confront someone. The way I did with your mother. Her mother, I mean. With Gabby."
Elliott's stomach dropped. "Jamie. Where is Julia?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he pulled out his phone, tapped the screen a few times, and then held it out to her.
Elliott took it.
On the screen was a live broadcast. Gabby Richardson's cooking show, streaming in real time. The kitchen set was gleaming and professional, the lighting perfect, the audience visible in the background. Gabby stood at her station, mid-demonstration, her famous smile fixed firmly in place.
And walking onto that set, blonde hair catching the studio lights, was Julia.