Chapter 3
Rose
“Mom? Why are you whispering?”
“Why are you whispering?” I whisper back.
I wander through the living room of a loft that’s almost a carbon copy of mine. Only a lot more lived-in and with more masculine furniture.
Still comfortable, though, I think, sinking down onto the sectional sofa.
Very comfortable. Much better than the ancient plaid couch I moved here from my house in Austin.
In good shape for being fifteen years old but …
it’s fifteen years old. Maybe once business picks up I can think about replacing it.
If. If business picks up. Which is going to be a challenge considering I can’t even be open right now.
Chelsea laughs and then her voice returns to normal volume. “Sorry. I guess I was just matching your energy. But seriously! What is going on? Have you been kidnapped?”
“No?”
“You don’t sound sure.”
“I’m not.”
I don’t mean to say that I’m not sure about being kidnapped, which obviously I haven’t. It’s more that I’m not sure about anything. I’ve felt off-kilter since the moment Tank Graham walked into my oven of a bakery this morning.
But of course, Chelsea, my easy-to-escalate, often over-the-top daughter, takes this the wrong way.
She came out of the womb using exclamation points.
The opposite of her brother, who is serious to the point of being something of a stick in the mud.
Especially about this whole move, which John was strongly against. Actually, it wasn’t the move so much as me shifting from a cottage bakery out of my own kitchen to a full bakery storefront.
He tried to talk me out of it, telling me ten different ways I could fail and lose all my savings.
Which is a real concern. David had life insurance, and we had a healthy bank account.
But I continued to teach, which isn’t a massive single salary on which to raise two children.
John’s resistance actually might have activated some stubborn part of me, making me want to double down, just to show him.
Since he refused to help me figure out the finances the way I hoped he would, my two best friends, both of whom happen to be named Emily, acted like my unpaid advisors.
Emily Condy did market research on bakeries and sketched out a business plan, which was amazing.
Emily Jackson, whom we call Jacks, is a whiz with all things accounting and numbers, and she helped outline a financial plan, which was frankly terrifying.
“If you sell your house, you’ll have the capital you need to get started, plus a lot in the bank as a cushion,” Jacks told me.
“And then you won’t need to take out a small business loan, though that is another option,” Emily said.
“Loans make me nervous, but selling the house sounds so … final.” I remember feeling a mix of nausea and relief at the idea.
But the more I thought about it, the more nausea dissipated and the relief grew into something more like excitement. It would give me a chance to do something big, to prove myself to John. And to myself.
“Mom.” Chelsea’s voice grows so loud now I have to pull the phone away from my ear. “Are you okay? What’s our code word?” she demands.
Now I’m the one laughing. “Our code word? That was supposed to be for you and John when you were little!”
I can now admit that in the early days of parenting, long before David died, I was a professional-grade worrier.
Less of a helicopter parent and more of a bell jar parent, trying to keep an almost suffocating glass dome of protection around both John and Chelsea.
I swallowed parenting books whole but quickly moved on to obsessively reading mommy blogs, which were in their infancy back in those days—a raw, journalistic version of the shiny and perfect influencer mommy blogs that came later.
It was one of those blogs that suggested establishing a family code word.
I’d never thought of this, but the code word was to prevent the worst possible scenarios, the ones that keep you up at night.
Or, kept me up many nights, making myself almost sick with worry.
So both John and Chelsea were instructed that if someone ever said they were picking them up—even someone they knew—that person needed the family code word.
Or else under no circumstances should John or Chelsea go with them.
Needless to say, we never had to use the code word.
And thanks to my husband’s suggestion of therapy and a brief stint of taking anti-anxiety medication, I was able to find a healthier balance when it came to my protective mothering instincts and worry-induced insomnia.
For the most part, anxiety hasn’t resurfaced again—even when David died, which seems like it might be the most obvious catalyst.
Now that I’m aware of what anxiety feels like to me, the few times it started to flood my system, I was able to manage it. Mostly by extricating myself from any situation that caused it.
“Well, now the code word is for you since you’re the one acting weird,” Chelsea says. “You’re whispering, and you did not sound sure when I asked if you’d been kidnapped. Tell me the code word. Now.”
“Fine,” I say, still laughing. “The code word is succotash. Worst code word ever. I’m still not sure I know what succotash is.”
“Well, it works, and that’s all that matters. I trust you haven’t been kidnapped, but I still need to know what’s going on! Mason, isn’t my mom being weird?”
“Am I on speakerphone?” I ask.
“Hi, Mrs. Roberts.” Mason’s deep voice comes over the line. “I got here just in time to hear that you haven’t been kidnapped?”
“No kidnapping. Just … a very odd day.”
In as few words spoken as I can manage in the briefest way possible, I explain about the AC breaking in my building. And then about Tank Graham swooping in to save the day.
I guess it shouldn’t be considered swooping in since he’s my landlord and dealing with the AC is a very landlord thing to do.
But it still felt very swoopy.
Or maybe that’s just how my stomach feels any time I’m around him.
In any case, after insisting I grab a few things from my sauna-like loft, Tank left me alone in his, telling me to make myself comfortable while he met with the HVAC guy across the street.
“Wait—hang on a minute,” Chelsea interrupts. “So right now, you’re alone at his place? Tank Graham—Dad’s favorite football player?”
I really wish Chelsea hadn’t brought up her father.
But it is true that David was a huge fan of Tank’s.
The collection of memorabilia in my Austin storage unit bears witness to this fact.
There’s even a signed jersey in a glass display case, which is a weird thing to think about now that I’m sitting in the loft of the man responsible for that Sharpied signature.
That’s why I don’t like thinking about David right now while sitting in Tank Graham’s empty loft, sitting on Tank Graham’s amazing sofa.
I’ve almost completely dissociated Tank, the actual man who’s been frequenting my bakery a few times a week, from Tank, the football player my late husband idolized.
The whole adoring late husband thing makes it weird.
And I’m already struggling to be normal around Tank.
We’ve only had a handful of conversations—today, the only one of any consequence—and I always find myself on the verge of babbling and saying things I don’t plan to and probably shouldn’t.
When I’m faced with the prospect of talking to him, I feel like I might plan to ask if he’d like something to eat and tell him my bank password instead.
Anyway, Chelsea bringing up her father opens a long-closed chapter of my life, merging it with the new story I’ve been hoping to start.
“Yes, that’s what I said,” I tell Chelsea now.
“I can’t believe it! What’s he like in person? Is he as handsome as he looks on TV?”
“Hey,” Mason protests. “I’m standing right here.”
“I meant handsome for my mom. Not for me. Ew. He’s much too old.”
I’m glad for Mason’s interjection because it means Chelsea forgets that she just asked me if he’s handsome. I do not want to answer the question. I mean, the answer is obvious: yes. Tank is incredibly good looking. And kind. And funny.
I don’t want to talk about any of those things with my daughter.
“Is Tank there? Is that why you were whispering?” Chelsea asks. “Wait. Hold on. Mom—do you have a crush?”
She practically squeals at this, and again, I find myself wincing and pulling the phone away from my ear.
“This is perfect! It’s about time you tried dating again! And Tank Graham is a catch!” Chelsea continues.
“I’m not trying to catch him. Or date him. Dial it back a notch, Chels.”
But Chelsea does not have a dial-back setting. I love her positivity and effusiveness, but when I’m trying to deny my crush, I could use a little less drama from my daughter.
“This is amazing!”
“There is no this! He’s my landlord. My AC is broken both in the shop and my apartment. I’m just cooling off over here while he talks to the HVAC guy. And don’t tell your brother. You know how John is about the bakery.”
“Ugh, fine. But if it’s not fixed today, where are you staying? Do you need to come here?”
“No! I’m sure it will be fine.” I don’t tell her that I’ve sweated through the last two nights in my place. I can do it again if needed. Hopefully it won’t be. Although it is a Friday. Do AC guys work on the weekends? I sure hope so.
“Just know our guest room is open,” Chelsea says. “I’m so excited for you.”
“You’re jumping ten steps ahead and in a direction I’m probably not even going. This is really not a big thing.”
“Mom.” Chelsea’s voice softens. “If you really like him, it is a big thing. And it’s okay.”
I swallow. She knows me far too well. Even in the things I denied or the things I didn’t say, Chelsea has me pegged.
And she’s not wrong. About any of it.