5. Tilly
Chapter five
Tilly
I ’m all blues and no clues as I leave the bank, stuffing the thick stack of paperwork into my floral crossbody purse. My head spins with everything necessary to acquire a simple small-business loan, and there’s a small chance the fluttering inside my stomach isn’t excitement but nausea. When Jessie was alive, we calculated start-up, equipment, and overhead costs for my dream bakery location. I had my business plan all in order, my dreams so close I could taste the sweet icing of success, but we could never find a good location.
A soft chiming emanates from my purse. I shuffle through it to grab my phone and slice my finger along the loan paperwork, cursing at the sting. This day keeps getting better. Without glancing at the caller, I answer.
“Hello?” I cringe at the brashness in my voice.
“Hey sweetpea,” my mother-in-law says.
My shoulders curve in, immediately embarrassed by the tone I answered with. I clear my throat, trying to shake away the tension riding my vocal cords. “Hey Nora.”
“Are you home?” she asks.
A frown tugs at the corners of my mouth. “Just left the bank downtown.”
“I hope everything’s okay. ”
I inhale, hoping disappointment doesn’t seep into my voice. “It’s fine. I talked to someone about getting a loan to start a new bakery location.”
Her sharp gasp melds my feet to the cement. “No,” she breathes.
“No? What do you mean no ?”
The phone crackles in my ear like she’s holding it against her chest. Her animated voice muffles as she argues with someone in the background.
“We can talk about it at dinner tonight,” she says. “Would you mind picking up my pottery since you’re already downtown?”
“Didn’t Shantel pick it up the other day after she left my house?”
“She had a meeting she couldn’t be late for, and if the bowl isn’t picked up today, I’ll have to wait until next month when the owner is back from vacation,” Nora says, coughing into the speaker.
I sigh into the phone, inwardly cursing my sister-in law. Nora doesn’t ask me for much. She could have cut ties after Jessie passed, but she and Shantel have been my rock and support system through everything. This is the least I can do, even if I’d rather go home and wallow in my misery with a pint of ice cream.
“You know what,” she interrupts my negative thoughts, “don’t worry about the bowl. I can ask Archer to pick it up.”
Archer’s name twists the knots in my stomach even tighter.
“No,” I reply too harshly. “I’m already down here.”
“Okay.” Her voice fades, mumbling words to someone else, another uninvited guest to the conversation like my late husband’s best friend. “I’ll see you soon.”
Thankfully, the pottery shop is just a few blocks away from where I’m at now, and I get to pass by the building I always dreamt would be my bakery—had someone not nabbed the space before I could .
Canopies and wide umbrellas are set up in preparation for the weekend farmers market, but thankfully it’s early enough there aren’t a ton of people congregating in the area. I pass a few owners opening their stores, but otherwise encounter only delivery drivers hauling beer from their trucks.
The warmth from the red brick seeps through my worn sandals, the Texas heat bearing down on my exposed neck. I creep toward the plywood covering the door of the building. Whoever leased the building never opened it, a dick move in my humble opinion. I listen closely for any chatter or tools clanking together. When the only sounds I hear are the cars passing behind me, it’s clear no one is here.
Standing in front of the spot where I imagined my career would start, I place a hand over my stomach and will the knots to loosen. I close my eyes and my dream bakery comes alive. Black and white checkered floors leading to the counter with a built-in bakery case. Persimmon lemon pinwheel cookies, dark chocolate habanero cupcakes, and my mom’s favorite pie flavors lining the shelves beside a metal, old-school register that makes the ‘ca-ching’ sound when opened. Tea cups and saucers to dip fig biscotti and Italian cookies, an area to teach kids’ baking classes off to the side…basically everything I’ve dreamed of.
Nearly two years ago, I passed by this exact spot with my husband and made a wish that I could open my own bakery here.
Today, I stand in front of it as a widow with only a desperation that the last year never happened—that I could change my stupid wish of starting my own business to one that would give me Jessie back.
A voice in the back of my head reminds me that though there’s no magic that can reverse time, it’s still possible to make my dream of owning a bakery come true—even if it’s not in the location I originally wanted. I don’t care how difficult the loan process is. I will get my life back on track and complete the dreams I set out for myself, the ones Jessie knew I could achieve.
My hand hangs heavy at my side, the comforting weight of my wedding ring drawing my attention. I bat away tears that threaten to fall and spin it around my finger, soothed by the good memories it brings to mind.
With one last look at the building where I should be selling sweet treats, I head down the road. Hair raises on my arms when I see the mass of people hanging around the square. I scan the crowd for a way to pass through without touching anyone—even the thought of someone accidentally bumping me chafes—but there’s no space. I’m embarrassed and frozen on the outskirts, waiting for a clear path as I try to calm my jitters. A walkway opens near the food hall, and I breathe a sigh of relief as I scurry toward the entrance.
Careful not to set off my touch anxiety, I stay away from the more densely packed area in front of the jazz bar, skirting the crowd, and make it to The Tiny Finch without being touched; in my book, that’s a success.
The ceramic shop is thankfully empty of patrons. Quicker than expected, I pay for Nora’s avant-garde bowl and get on the road to Sunday dinner. Traffic is light as I drive toward Alamo Heights, where the homes range from luxurious mansions to quaint one-story houses with high price tags.
I turn onto Nora’s street and find Archer’s green F-150 parked in my usual spot in her driveway. Sweat coats my palms and I consider driving back home to pretend I came down with a stomach bug. Only it’s pointless. I have to face him eventually—he has the answers I need.
Grabbing the box of treats and Nora’s pottery, I climb out of the car and nudge the door shut with my hip. Archer isn’t inside the truck, but the leatherbound journal he carries around like a Bible sits on the dash along with a pair of sunglasses.
My stomach knots standing on the front porch as I rehearse the answers to the questions I know they’ll ask. Yes, I’m eating. No, I don’t want to swipe right on his profile. And yes, I totally made his side of the bed. That last one would be a lie. I still haven’t managed to fully make the bed.
Put your big girl pants on, Tilly , I grumble, still considering leaving the treats and pottery on the doorstep and going home so I don’t have to deal with Archer’s awkward silence across the dinner table.
“Are you gonna go in or stand there all day?” I startle backwards at Archer’s gravelly voice—as unmistakable as it is unwelcome—and trip over the lip in the concrete.
The bowl and desserts slip from my hands, and I dive for Nora’s pottery, saving it from an untimely demise on the cement steps. The same can’t be said for my lemon bars. My freshly scraped knuckles sting, but that’s nothing compared to the ache of discovering the bracelet Jessie bought me lying in their ruins. Thank God it can be cleaned, though.
“Where the hell did you come from?” I yell, voice a touch too high as I crouch to pick up the mess, clutching my bracelet and the lemon bar goo now on the chain.
“My truck.” The sarcasm in his voice makes me grit my teeth. “Are you okay, Space Buns?”
I jerk back at his use of the nickname he gave me in college. It used to be endearing, making me feel part of the cool crowd, but now it grates on my already worn-down nerves.
I clear the majority of the lemon goop off my bracelet and reattach it to my wrist while counting backward to calm down. Once upon a time, I would’ve laughed about this with him, maybe even punched him in the shoulder playfully, but those times are long gone, swept away like our caps on the windy day Archer, Jessie, and I graduated from UTSA.
I grab the dessert box and clean up the remnants of my hard work.
“I’m fine,” I reply, dusting off the gravel embedded in my palms.
“What’re these?” He collects the papers that fell out of my purse.
“They’re nothing.” Heart thundering inside my chest, I snatch the papers from his hands without looking at him. “You know, you could help, seeing as it’s your fault.”
Even I bristle at the bite in my voice. I have no clue how to navigate this weird dynamic between us where we’re either snapping at each other or ignoring each other completely.
He grunts. “It’s not my fault you’re so jumpy.”
Tension bunches at the back of my neck. I should bill him for the massage I’ll be needing after this interaction. “Why have you been ignoring my messages?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I glance up at him with fire in my eyes, but he’s looking off to the side with his tongue in his cheek like he can’t even manage to make eye contact while he lies to me.
“You know, I thought you’d outgrow your asshole routine after graduation, but I guess not.” I throw a piece of a lemon bar at him and divert my eyes back to the mess. When Jessie and I started dating, Archer distanced himself. At first, I thought it was because he felt like a third wheel, but it became more apparent as time went on that it was me he had a problem with.
He shrugs. “I was busy. Must’ve forgotten.”
“Sure, you did. Like you forgot my birthday party.” The words slip out before I filter them, and my cheeks burn at my admission .
His voice softens as he crouches down to help me clean. “I didn’t think you’d want me there.”
Swallowing would be a good idea, but my tongue is too heavy in my mouth. Did I want him there? College me would’ve said yes in a split second. But me after years of cold shoulders where there used to be nothing but warmth hesitates.
He fills in the silence. “I had important stuff I needed to get done.”
“It’s fine if you didn’t wanna come.” Unable to meet his gaze, I keep my eyes focused on the ground. “You don’t have to make an excuse.”
“I’m not making an excuse. Some of us have to work for a living.”
I bite down on my lip, half trying to stop myself from cursing him out and half trying to stop myself from crying. Letting Archer see he’s affecting me in any way is the worst possible thing I could do. He’s only happy when he knows he’s pissed me off.
Foregoing a remark, I open the door to Nora’s and swing it shut behind me. Archer curses. I smile knowing I managed to hit him, as intended. Serves him right.
“Is that you, Tilly?” Shantel yells from the kitchen. “Mom, she’s here.”
Nora shuffles into the entryway, her long gray braids swinging behind her. Her deep umber skin is devoid of any wrinkles, and the smile she beams at me takes over her whole face. As far as mothers-in-law go, I hit the jackpot.
“Tilly, my dear. You look beautiful.” She tilts her head in acknowledgment to me and moves toward Archer, embracing him in a long hug. Even a year after Jessie’s death, she knows I still can’t bear to be touched. No skin-to-skin contact, not soft hugs or handshakes.
When your husband dies with his arms wrapped around you, it makes it hard to ever want anything else to brush along your skin .
I nearly gave the EMTs a heart attack when I screamed as they tried to assess me at the scene, and then I refused to allow the doctors or nurses to touch me at the hospital. I thought the desire for human touch would eventually return, but it never did. The therapist called it “touch starvation,” but to me it’s more like memory saving.
“I brought dessert bars, but someone scared me outside and they went everywhere.” My eyes dart to Arch, but his focus is on the ceiling.
“As long as they didn’t fall into the mud they’re fine.” Nora waves a hand in the air. “Why don’t you take them in to Shantel while I chat with Archer.”
Recognizing the dismissal, I head into the kitchen.
“Are those your new recipe?” Shantel steps away from the steaming pot and reaches for the box in my hands before pulling her hands back. I place the box on the counter so she can pick through them.
Her eyes close and she does a little shoulder shimmy. “These are absolutely yummy.” She reaches for another but the pot boiling over steals her attention. “Did I hear Arch out there too?”
“Yeah,” I grumble. “He parked in my spot then had the audacity to scare the shit out of me on the front porch.”
“I’ll never understand y’alls relationship.” She snorts. “I’m sure working on the bakery will help you guys hash out your problems.”
I blanch at her insinuation. Nora must’ve told her about our conversation from earlier. “I’d rather dip my hands in acid than be forced to work with the iceman out there.”
The creak of the wood floor and the exasperated sigh are the only indicators we aren’t alone. The man in question stands with his lips pinched, eyebrows furrowed, and an emotion I can’t place in his eyes.
With a frown, he turns and leaves the room, taking all the air in my lungs with him.