7. Ember #2
“In my day, young women didn’t play dress-up in work clothes to prove a point,” Martha mutters, tossing a crumpled ten-dollar bill onto the counter.
“And in my day, we called that a hostile consumer feedback loop,” I say with a bright, entirely fake grin, slamming the register drawer shut.
By eleven o’clock, the credit card reader suffers a total internal network failure. The machine emits one long electronic beep and then dies dramatically, which honestly feels relatable. It forces me to explain to a line of six angry contractors in high-vis vests that they have to use cash.
One of them, a burly man with a grease-stained cap, glares at me.
“You city people come down here and everything breaks,” he says. “Can’t even buy a donut without a satellite connection.”
“The satellite is fine, sir,” I say. “It’s a local router latency issue. If you’ll just give me a moment to power-cycle the hardware, or perhaps we can barter? What’s the street value of a bear claw in the current agricultural market?”
He just stares at me like I am speaking a foreign language.
When the clock finally hits six, Marge walks over to the front door and flips the sign from OPEN to CLOSED.
The silence that settles into the bakery is heavy and deafening. I drop my hands onto the counter, my body vibrating with total, systemic exhaustion.
Marge walks over, looks at the sparkling clean flour bins visible through the kitchen door, then looks at the cash drawer I’ve meticulously balanced. She reaches into her apron pocket, pulls out a fresh, warm loaf of sourdough wrapped in brown paper, and sets it on the counter next to my car keys.
“You didn’t quit,” Marge says, narrowing her eyes at me like this is somehow personally offensive. “Most of the summer girls from the university cry by ten and leave through the back door.”
“I don’t quit, Marge,” I say, giving her a tired but genuine smile. “I told you.”
Marge grunts, wiping her hands on her apron. “Well. You weren’t completely useless.”
My exhausted brain lights up with irrational pride.
“Thank you,” I say solemnly. “That’s so nice of you.”
“Hmph.” She points a finger at me. “Don’t get dramatic about it. But if you want more hours here and there, I could probably use the help.”
I blink at her. “Wait. Are you casually offering me continued employment?”
“I’m casually saying my high-school staff have the work ethic of sleepy raccoons,” Marge mutters. “And you actually showed up.”
A grin spreads across my face despite the fact that every muscle in my body currently feels shredded. “Wow. This is huge for my bakery career.”
“You’re a stubborn one,” Marge says, shaking her head. “Get out of here. Go wash your face.”
I grab my keys and the bread, stumbling out into the blinding evening sun like a survivor escaping a cave collapse.
Every step feels like my boots are filled with sand.
I am too tired to even listen to music.
That’s how I know the situation is serious.
By the time I clear the final ridge and my gravel driveway comes into view, the sun is beginning to dip below the tree line, casting long, bruised purple shadows across the pasture.
I don’t even make it to the front door.
I collapse onto the bottom step of my porch, dropping the sourdough loaf onto the wood beside me. Leaning my back against the weathered railing, I stretch my legs across the gravel and let my head tilt back against the peeling paint.
I close my eyes, the deep, heavy weight of exhaustion crashing over me.
I am ninety percent asleep within thirty seconds.
“Are you a sleeping princess?”
The voice is tiny, high-pitched, and entirely too close to my left ear.
I twitch, my eyelids fluttering open with a heavy, uncoordinated blink.
Standing three feet away from me in the gravel driveway is a little girl. She is about five years old, wearing a pair of bright pink rubber boots, denim overalls, and a bright green sweater with a giant, cartoon dinosaur embroidered across the front.
She has two messy blonde pigtails and a pair of massive, intensely curious green eyes.
She is holding a plastic scooter with glittery purple wheels, and she is looking at my flour-covered gray jumpsuit like I am an exhibit in a museum.
“I… what?” I croak, sitting up slowly, my screaming back protesting the movement, and rub my eyes. “Who are you?”
“I’m Sophie,” the little girl says matter-of-factly, taking a step closer and leaning on her scooter handles. “My daddy said you were a lot of work, but you look like a ghost princess. Why is your hair so big?”
My hand flies to my head. The golden-brown curls have fully exploded into a massive, frizzy halo. “My hair is… going through some issues, Sophie.”
“Sophie! Sophie, stop!”
A deep, frantic voice calls out across the pasture line.
I look up, my heart doing a sudden, violent jolt that has absolutely nothing to do with exhaustion and everything to do with the fact that Brooks is currently running across the field from his house.
He isn’t wearing his fire station uniform today—he is in a pair of oil-stained jeans and a faded gray t-shirt that clings to his broad shoulders in a way that should honestly be illegal in a rural zip code.
He lunges forward, his hands scooping Sophie off the ground, pulling her tight against his chest before she can even let out a squeak.
“Sophie, what did I tell you about leaving the yard?” Brooks says, his chest heaving as he breathes heavily. “I turned my back for two seconds to check the oil and you crossed the property line? You don’t ever run off like that. Do you understand me?”
Sophie pouts, her lower lip trembling slightly as she wraps her small arms around Brooks’s neck. “But daddy, the pink lady was sleeping on the stairs. I wanted to see if she was okay.”
Brooks freezes, his grip on his daughter tightening as he slowly turns his eyes down toward the porch steps where I am sitting.
He takes in the entire scene in a single, sweeping evaluation.
He looks at my gray canvas jumpsuit, which is thoroughly coated in white flour dust from head to toe. He looks at my massive, exploded gold curls hanging around my face like a wild mane.
And finally, he looks at my face, which probably looks like a crime scene of exhaustion and frustration.
The sharp, angry panic in his expression softens instantly, replaced by a deep, intense wave of concern that makes his forehead furrow.
“Jesus, Ember,” he says softly, stepping closer to the base of the steps, still holding Sophie tightly against his shoulder. “What the hell happened to you? Did the bakery explode?”
“The bakery did not explode,” I mutter, leaning my elbows on my knees and letting my head hang between my shoulders. “I completed my shift. I am an official flour bin technician. I am integrating into the local economy with maximum physical sacrifice.”
Brooks steps onto the first porch step, his heavy boot settling next to my leg. He sets Sophie down on the wood, keeping a firm, anchoring hand on her shoulder so she doesn’t wander off again.
He bends down, his form casting a long, protective shadow over my slumped body.
“You look like you ran a marathon through a flour mill,” he says, his voice losing its rough edge, his eyes scanning my face with a steady, searching intensity that makes the air on the porch feel entirely too warm.
“Are you actually okay? You’re pale.”
“I am spectacular,” I say, forcing a wide, sarcastic smile that hurts my dry face.
“Never better. Just absorbing the local ambiance. Your daughter thinks I’m a ghost princess, Brooks.
Honestly, it’s the best review I’ve gotten all day.
The contractors on Main Street were significantly less complimentary of my brand. ”
Sophie peeks from behind Brooks’s leg, her green eyes bright. “Daddy, can we give her a cookie? Remember, Miss Honey said neighbors like cookies.”
Brooks looks down at his daughter, then back up at me, his brow still furrowed.
“Yeah, bug,” Brooks says, his eyes locking onto mine with a steady, unreadable promise. “I think we can find a cookie for her. Come on, city girl. Let’s get you inside before you pass out right here.”
“I’m not passing out,” I mutter, though my eyelids are already betraying me. “I’m just taking a minute to admire the structural integrity of your gravel.”