Chapter 21 #2
“Gross,” I say. “But Theo’s not the issue. Sure, I appreciate that they’re friends, and I wouldn’t want to cause friction between them, but it’s also not my brother’s call who I do or don’t date.”
“Preach,” Skylar puts in.
Trevyn voices his take on the problem. “It can’t happen because you’re chasing the same dream and you need to keep your focus on it.”
Bingo. “Yes. That. But also, I’m taking a break from dating.
That last breakup really sucked. I felt so stupid.
” The familiar self-loathing swims up inside me, as it does whenever I think of Dax, the way he left, and the things he said about me.
Things that clearly resonated, judging from Gym Girl’s weird excitement over meeting me.
“I feel stupid half the time in this town too. When I go up and down Main Street introducing myself to the other business owners, sometimes I feel like people are waiting for me to fail just like Dax was waiting for me to fail. Like this woman at the gym,” I say, then tell them about the selfie sneak attack.
“I hope you took her phone and smashed it,” Trevyn says.
I laugh. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
“But it doesn’t sound like she was waiting for you to fail. More like she thinks she’s kind of floundering and saw some sort of kinship,” Remy says.
I chew on that for a beat, then concede, “Maybe.”
“The people here aren’t that bad,” she reassures me.
“I know.” It’s true there’s been some real kindness.
Like from Zakiya, of course, as well as the woman who owns the Green Pantry, and the bookshop owner.
But I can’t shake the mailbox incident, the llama drama, the meme.
“But really, why do I want to get into a relationship that might not work out? I’ve got to focus on the bakery. I don’t want to fail at that.”
“You’re not going to,” Remy says, firm and supportive.
“I have faith in you,” Trevyn seconds.
“And we’re all going to show up at your opening day and gorge ourselves to make sure you sell out,” Skylar adds.
And at the end of that day, Corbin and I will read another love letter from years ago.
I can’t wait for our opening for many reasons.
I toss the ball in the air once and catch it easily. “Now, stop distracting me with your names for dry-humping styles. I have to serve underhand this time.”
And I do.
When the game ends, my friends take off, and even though a part of me is dying to walk the long way downtown by going around all the shops via side streets, I force myself to go along Main Street, saying hello.
I say hi to Luis, who runs a cute little clothing boutique with a rainbow flag in the window.
I avoid the town square, where the retired guys who play chess outside like to eat grocery store Danishes and drink gas station coffee and disparage hipster bakeries (they told me as much when I handed out a flyer earlier in the week for the upcoming opening day).
But I stop for a minute to chat with the woman who runs the sandwich shop that makes excellent vegetarian fare.
She’s been particularly supportive, one vegetarian to another.
I pass The Meet Cute, where the frosty-faced little dog lounges in his chair sleepily.
I wave to Clementine, who owns the store, and she waves back from behind the counter.
She’s a friend of mine, and it’s comforting to know that she’ll definitely be coming to the opening since not only do we get along, but her brother, Lake, plays on the Foxes with Corbin.
A Good Yarn is a couple of shops up ahead, and then I’ll turn onto Holly Springs.
A trio of older women pours out of the shop. The knitting club, I think, judging by the craft bags slung over their shoulders, some with needles sticking out, another with the tail of a knitted scarf flapping in the breeze.
One of them says, “I give it a month.”
I wonder what they’re talking about.
“Three,” the woman in the middle says. “The hockey player will keep it open.”
My gut twists as I have the answer. Me. They’re talking about me.
“She’s a good baker,” the third one admits. “I’ve ordered stuff from her place in the city. But she doesn’t belong here. She’s a city girl.”
The first one nods. “She didn’t stick around the last time.”
I’ve stopped outside the bookstore, my feet glued to the sidewalk, refusing to move. They’re betting on me to fail.
My skin crawls. My stomach aches. I suck in a breath, only it feels like I can’t breathe. I try again, but inhaling is hard all of a sudden.
Is this a panic attack? I’ve never had one before, but I think it might feel like this.
Why did I think it would be okay for me to come back to Cozy Valley just because I inherited an abandoned fire station? Did I think I could welcome-wagon myself into their hearts with a cheery, Hi, I’m Mabel, and I want to sell you cookies from my firehouse-turned-bakery!
I spin around, searching for the quickest route out of sight. I still can’t catch my breath, and I don’t want anyone to see me freaking out like this.
Think fast.
Ah, there’s a slim alley next to the bookshop. I dart down it, into the shadows, and lean against the wall. It’s a mural of spines for some of the most popular romance books of the last few years. I breathe in. I breathe out. I try to slow my jackhammering pulse.
What if no one shows up on opening day? What if not enough people do?
What if I’m too chaotic? Too crazed? Too obsessed with my baked goods?
What if I put too much salt in a recipe?
What if I pick the wrong merch, or not enough merch?
What if the chairs are uncomfortable, or the decor is too pink, or it’s not pink enough?
My mind swims with too many possibilities.
I breathe again, trying to calm my wild thoughts, my racing heart.
Another breath.
It’s fine. I’m fine.
Another slow breath.
I’ll prove them wrong. That’s what I’ll do.
After a minute or two, I’ve gotten myself together enough to slip out of the alley, where I run smack into…my mother.
She’s all tweed and polish, her stick-straight brown hair cut in a bob, her horn-rimmed reading glasses perched atop her head. The strap of her leather satchel full of books rests on her shoulder.
“Oh, what a lovely surprise,” she says. “How are you?”
“What are you doing here?” I blurt out. I haven’t seen her in a few months. We’ve talked. We’ve texted. I had to tell her I was opening a bakery here. I couldn’t hide that. But I’ve been too busy to meet up. At least, that’s what I told her.
She gives me a confused look at the question. “I live here.”
“Right.” Of course, I knew that. I’m just so flustered. I jam my hands through my hair. It’s still a little sweaty from the game. “I didn’t expect to see you. I’m sorry. Was I supposed to meet you?”
“No, I’m just picking up lunch at the Green Pantry. Do you want something? We could get a bite and chat about some ideas I have for you in case things don’t work out with the bakery.”
Gritting my teeth, I heave a sigh. “You too?” Is there anyone in this town who doesn’t think I’m a loser?
“What do you mean you too?”
But I’m not about to let her know that the knitting club is placing bets on how fast I sink into business quicksand. “Nothing. I just meant…I’m sorry. I’m a little—”
She sets a cool, moisturized hand on my arm.
“You’re scattered, dear. I get it. It happens.
And if you don’t have time for lunch, just put this little nugget in the back of your mind.
I could help you get a job at the university in the food services.
They have some openings. The benefits are great.
There’s a wonderful retirement plan. I know you’re determined to make this little bakery work, but sweetheart, you really need to be in a job that has benefits.
It’s so important. You have to think about the future. ”
The sidewalk tilts. The world is upside down. I feel small all over again for daring to think my little bakery could work.
I drag a hand down my face and say, “I’ll think about it, okay? I need to go.”
“Let’s do lunch soon,” she says.
“Right. Soon,” I say robotically, then escape down the street toward the firehouse.
I need to bake.
I need to prove I can do this.
I need to show them all I’m not a hot mess.
But when I spot a pack of strong, sturdy men carting in tables and chairs, I remember. Today, the guys from Corbin’s team are setting up the furniture we ordered from a consignment shop.
It looks like Riggs is hauling a pink chair from a pickup truck that belongs to Lake’s ranch.
I’m not sure I can face all of them. I’m not sure I can face anybody. I’m about to double back to…do what? Retreat? Like everyone expects me to?
I stop maybe a hundred feet away and try to think.
Corbin strides out, says something to the guys, then laughs, but the sound cuts off when he turns my way.
“Just set it up in the corner,” he tells someone. “Back in a minute.”
He jogs to me, concern etched in his thoughtful eyes, like he already knows everything that’s happening in my head, like he can read all my feelings on my face.
“What’s wrong, Firecracker?” he asks when he reaches me.
The new nickname settles some of my spiraling thoughts. “Did you just call me firecracker?”
“Seems about right for you.” His eyes narrow as he assesses me, then he reaches for my shoulders, squeezing them. His gaze burns, intense, like he’d destroy anybody who hurt me. “Mabel? What happened?”
The question is urgent, insistent.
“It’s stupid,” I say quietly.
“It’s not stupid.”
“It is. I’ll be fine,” I say, trying to swallow the hurt—a hurt I brought on myself.
“Mabel,” he says, his voice a warning.
“I swear.”
He glances over his shoulder then back to me, his eyes alight with a plan. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”