Chapter 22 #3
“Wh-what’s it like? At the bakery?” Jordan asks, his voice timid.
Charlie beams. “Nothing in the world smells better than Juanita’s Bakery.”
Smiles fill our little circle. Even mine.
“Are you learning how to bake stuff?” Maddie asks.
“I learned how to make empanadas this week. They have ten different fillings. My favorite is mango.
Not gonna lie, Mango empanadas sound pretty good.
“Tomorrow, Gomez will teach me how to make canastas.”
“What’re those?” I blurt, mouth already watering.
“It’s a Mexican sweetbread. Sort of like a Danish shaped like a cupcake.” His expression turns dreamy. “They have ten different flavors of those too.”
Hot damn. A Mexican Danish-cupcake?!
“This place is just around the corner?” I ask. We get free time. Lots of it. Clearly, I need to make a trip to Juanita’s.
Charlie laughs. “Yeah. They are open until nine p.m. We can all walk down for dessert tonight if you guys want to.”
All of the groupies agree. Me included. No way am I missing a field trip to this wonderland.
“Have you always enjoyed baking?” This question is also mine.
Charlie pushes his glasses up his nose, grinning huge. “I’ve never baked anything before in my life.”
This time my jaw does drop. “Well—then—how—” I can’t even successfully form my question.
“When Mark went over the results from my career assessments, he identified that early morning work in a quiet environment would be a good fit.” Charlie ducks his head and pushes his glasses up his nose. “As would a job that was predictable and allowed me to work with my hands.”
I think about those criteria. An early shift in a bakery checks all the boxes. But was that his only option? What if he had celiac disease?
“Did you get a list of other possible fits?” I’m already worrying about my own results. I can’t imagine my assessment will yield a ton of them, but I hope there’s more than one.
“Oh, yeah. Landscaping, security, stocking, factory assembly,” he lists. “Things like that. Working in a bakery just sounded the most… I don’t know… rewarding.”
I can see that. Ending your shift with a display case full of baked goodies would feel rewarding. It would also feel delicious.
And who doesn’t love a baker? Seriously. Everyone leaves a bakery full of delight. Unless they’re assholes.
It isn’t until the others laugh that I realize I’ve blurted this aloud.
Before I know it, Gwen is wrapping up the ninety-minute meeting, and I realized I’ve just survived my first group therapy session.
And I liked it. A lot.
In one way or another, I can relate to each of the five other residents, and I’m looking forward to learning things about myself that they seemed to have discovered here.
With a little time before lunch, I head back to my room.
For the first time since I arrived, I’m not actively pissed off. I can’t think about my parents without feeling like I’m holding a red-hot branding iron of resentment, but I’m not really thinking about them right now.
I’m thinking about that session.
And I’m thinking about my phone tucked beneath my bras and underwear in the top dresser drawer.
And I’m thinking about how I want to call Beck and tell him everything that’s happened in the last few days.
But I can’t do that if I never want him to know, either.
I know I shouldn’t, but I open the drawer and rifle through it. I’d made the wise decision to power off my phone when I checked in last night. Even when I had it silenced, feeling it buzz every time Beck texted or called was a maddening temptation.
I give in and power the thing on.
Listening to his voicemails isn’t an option. If I hear his voice now, I’ll crack.
I haven’t let myself read his messages since Tuesday afternoon, when my parents and I landed in San Diego. I scroll back up to his casual, unruffled response to my last message. When I told him I couldn’t meet him on Monday, I said I was sorry.
He may not realize it, but I was apologizing in advance. Because ghosting him while I’m here was premeditated.
Does that make it worse?
Like a murder?
And does it make it even worse that I take comfort reading his messages? Because it’s proof he hasn’t forgotten about me?
Am I an evil girlfriend?
Monday morning
Beck: It’s okay. Do what you need to do. Let me know when you’re free.
Beck: And I love you.
Rereading these words is like a harpoon to the heart. The fact that he sent these as two texts seems immeasurably sweet to me. As though he fired off the first one and realized he wasn’t finished. That the message wasn’t complete until he told me how he felt.
Monday night
Beck: You okay?
Beck: I just tried calling. With the rain in the forecast tomorrow afternoon, I have an early start, but call me back even if it’s late.
Tuesday afternoon
Beck: Something’s wrong. Is it my fault? I’m starting to worry that things might’ve moved too fast for you this weekend. Please talk to me.
This was the last message I’d let myself read when I’d powered off my phone Tuesday because the urge to call him had been too much. But there’s a fuckton of other messages since then.
My heartbeat quickens when I see the double digits.
Tuesday night
Beck: You’re leaving me on read.
I suck in my breath when I read this one.
Shit. I forgot all about read receipts.
How could I be so dumb?
Beck: You know that’s not cool, right?
Beck: Gotta say, Hattie, I don’t like it. What the hell is going on?
Beck: Are you alright? Just call me back so we can work this out.
Wednesday night
Beck: Hattie, honey, I’m parked on the street outside your house. I can see your Jeep. I know this is sketch, but please, please come out and talk to me.
(Twenty-two minutes later)
Beck: No one’s answering the goddamn door. The house looks empty.
Beck: What the fuck is going on?
Beck: Something is wrong. I refuse to believe this is how you’re breaking up with me.
Beck: Are your parents behind this?
Beck: Tell me where you are and I’ll come get you.
(Two hours later)
Beck: You haven’t read my messages in more than 24 hours. I don’t know what happened to you, and I’m officially freaked.
Beck: Hattie, sweetheart. Please. Please tell me you’re okay.