Chapter 20
Rose
Waking up at a stupid early hour to walk with Tank was totally worth it. Even if it meant yawning my way through the rest of the morning.
When I met him on the sidewalk, the air had a tiny bit of crispness to it, a needed respite from the heat and humidity.
He took my hand and matched my pace as we wandered out of Sheet Cake’s downtown and through some of the nearby neighborhoods with their quaint craftsman style houses.
Tank even pointed out one with a pair of cannons.
“One of those actually shot Chevy earlier this year,” he told me as we walked by.
“He got shot by a cannon? How is he alive?”
Tank chuckled. “It was loaded with Dr Pepper cans. Kids used to stuff them in, like a trash can. There was an unfortunate choice to light the fuse and, well, yeah.”
One more thing to add to my little notebook of Sheet Cake quirks, which, of course, I told Tank about. He gave me a few more items to add. Apparently, the woman who has the cannons also has a pet opossum she tries to pass off as a cat.
When I got back to the loft, I was grinning and glowing—though some of that was the sweat.
Despite the mild temperature drop, I did manage to get some good exercise in.
More importantly, I got a Tank fix before we split up: him to help with Wolf’s thing before babysitting and me to bake with the Emilys until they leave.
And now, the morning has flown by, and I’m giving the Emilys a tour of the bakery just before they leave.
“It’s so perfect,” Jacks says, misty-eyed. “So perfect and so you.”
It’s the best feedback she could have given, and it’s exactly what I hoped for when designing the space.
Yet today, hearing the words and watching my two best friends admire the space I dreamed about and spent the last few months creating, it doesn’t hit the way I think it should.
I don’t like failing. And I haven’t—yet.
But I also find myself suddenly wondering if this is the dream, or if this was a dream.
“Almost perfect,” Emily says, pulling out the collar of her shirt to fan herself. “If only it weren’t a hundred degrees.”
But I can’t help but be thankful for the heat, which persists, even with the cooler temperatures this morning. The broken AC had been the catalyst, the spark setting my life on fire in maybe the best way possible. Now, it’s just a matter of seeing what’s left when the flames die down.
I feel more and more certain that Tank will still be there. But this little bakery? I’m not so sure.
As I walk the Emilys to the car to say goodbye, I get teary despite my best efforts to rein it in.
“Pull yourself together,” Emily says, hugging me in a way that’s just short of violent.
But then I hear her sniffle. She hates crying—both doing it and having to witness it. “Emily—are you crying?”
“Look what you’re doing to me! Ugh!”
I laugh, a tiny sob breaking through the middle. “I don’t know why I’m feeling all … verklempt.”
Jacks wraps her arms around both of us, and now, it’s a three-way hug. Both comforting and a little constricting on my breathing. “Emotions are healthy,” she says. “Don’t be afraid to be all up in your feels.”
“I don’t think you’re allowed to say all up in your feels.” Emily pulls back to wipe her eyes.
“I’m allowed to use whatever terms I want, thank you very much.
I think by our age, the rules don’t apply.
Young people don’t get to own all the fun phrases.
” Turning to me, Jacks tugs gently at the end of my ponytail.
“This has been quite the visit. Though baking is exhausting, I like the new life you’ve built, Rose. ”
I start to protest, but honestly, I am building a new life. Even if the construction is still very much underway.
If they had come to visit any earlier, I think they might have been alarmed at the lack of life-building.
In the last short week, I’ve connected to Sheet Cake in a way I hadn’t in the months before.
Obviously, a lot of it has to do with Tank, and he’s the connecting piece.
I chatted with Kalli and Molly in the coffee shop and spent several hours baking with Tank’s family and friends.
Even something as simple as going out to eat at Mari’s Diner a few times now has made me feel more like I’m a part of the community.
The last week also made me acknowledge how lonely I’ve been. I’m not sure I realized how much running the bakery was taking out of me. And how much it took from me. I had no social life or any kind of life outside of just trying to keep things running. And I’ve barely done that.
It’s this I keep circling back to. Not the two months of time Jacks gave me as far as the financials. Because beyond the financial cost of starting a business, which obviously has been high, I wasn’t thinking of the personal cost.
Which may actually have been higher. Now, the debate in my head is less about money and the business plan and more about what I want out of my life.
“Thank you for everything,” I say as Emily climbs behind the wheel of her Range Rover and Jacks hoists herself into the passenger seat.
“We’ll come back to visit soon,” Emily says. “Maybe even for the surprise rally for Wolf. I like small town drama and an underdog. Or would he be considered an underwolf?”
I laugh. “Underwolf makes sense. And you’re welcome to come. I should be back in my place, so just let me know!”
Tank has been running all over doing things to get ready for Saturday night.
I’m not sure what to expect, but I know it will be memorable.
I’ve never gotten involved or cared about local politics, though I know it’s probably something I should care about.
This will be the first mayoral race I’ve ever voted in.
“I do like this little town,” Jacks agrees. “It’s fun. Good people.”
Emily and I exchange a glance. Jacks spent another hour playing chess with Glenn today. Every time I glanced over from behind the pastry case, she was laughing, and he had color in his cheeks.
Again, maybe it’s nothing. A few friendly games of chess with a man she just met.
But maybe meeting the exact right person could make Jacks reconsider her stance on relationships. It took the right person for me—even though I didn’t have a hard-nosed stance on not dating ever again like Jacks. I just didn’t think I would, and I’d made my peace with that.
Now, I’m the person waiting for her best friends to drive out of sight so I can text Tank immediately. I don’t want to wait another minute before talking to him. I grin when the phone starts to ring in my hand. Guess I’m not the only one feeling this way.
But when I answer, Tank’s voice sounds pleading and desperate. “Rose?” he says. There’s a baby crying loudly in the background. Wailing would be a better term for it. “Are you free? I really need your help.”
“Yes. Where are you? What’s wrong? Are you okay?” I’m already speedwalking to my car.
“Pat and Lindy’s house. And I’m okay. It’s just that I offered to babysit, but I think I forgot how to actually take care of a baby.”
Twenty minutes later, I pull up to Pat and Lindy’s farmhouse to find Tank on the front porch, holding a baby in his big arms. Which would be a very attractive look if he didn’t appear horrified.
He starts down the steps and meets me on the sidewalk as two dogs, a lab and some kind of Pekingese mix weave around his legs.
I immediately smell what the problem is when Tank reaches me.
“She pooped,” he says. “Which would have been fine. Probably. But it somehow went up her back. It’s in her hair.”
“It happens. Here, let me take her,” I say with a laugh, reaching for the baby.
Evangeline looks to be around a month or two old, give or take, but it’s hard to tell with her face all scrunched up from crying.
Also, it’s been a long while since I’ve held a baby.
She’s red-cheeked and starting to do the kind of hiccuping sobs that indicate she’s cried herself nearly into exhaustion.
And I can not only smell the poop, but I feel it on my shirt.
Gross, but it’s fine. There’s an immediate mental shift into baby care mode, where a little poop on me matters less than getting her clean and comfortable.
“There, there—we’re going to get you all cleaned up,” I tell her, then turn to Tank. “Why don’t we go inside and you can show me where they keep …”
My question about diapers and wipes disappears because Tank is whipping off his shirt with the kind of speed I didn’t know was possible. I’m pretty sure a few of his buttons popped off and landed right in the roses growing along the front porch.
“It’s on me,” Tank says, balling up the shirt and tossing it into the bed of his truck. “The poop.” He stares at his arms, then his torso, twisting like he’s trying to search for any trace of it.
This would be comical, except that I find myself struck completely speechless by the sight of all those muscles bunching and flexing as he moves.
How is it possible for a man to be that built? And I don’t mean for a man his age. I mean, for a man, period.
One thing Tank never mentioned this week was hitting the gym. But he must go often, because genetics can only get you so far, and his broad chest and defined abs are clearly the result of consistent hard work.
It’s impressive and honestly, a little intimidating. I mean, I look fine, but fine for a woman my age. Even in my best shape ever, Tank and I wouldn’t have made a matched set.
As soon as it appears, I kick the self-consciousness to the curb. Because the reality is that Tank knows what I look like. And if he’s still interested, then it doesn’t matter if I feel like we are equals in that way.
I have a feeling this might be a truth I’ll need to remind myself of now and again.
I realize suddenly that Evangeline is quiet. I glance down, and she blinks at me with wet lashes. “Hi, there, beautiful.”
“That’s the first time she’s stopped crying for the last hour,” Tank says with a sigh.
She immediately opens her mouth and begins to howl.