10. Tilly
Chapter ten
Tilly
N o one realizes how dirty ceiling fans can get until they’re lying beneath one, watching dust particles float around. I’ve laid here since last night, contemplating what to do and how to feel about the bakery. All I’ve been able to come up with is anger.
Anger at everyone for keeping this from me, anger at myself for spending the last year so out of it that I didn’t notice something was going on right under my nose, and anger at Jessie for doing something so sweet and then leaving me before I had a chance to show him how happy his gift made me.
Happiness is what I want to feel, but betrayal crowds my chest, pressing against my ribs as I struggle to breathe through the tears. I stare at my wedding ring, lifting it to my first knuckle as if I’m ready to take it off then slamming it back into the webbed part between my fingers.
My phone dings beside me, and thinking it’s a text message from Shantel, I grab it and swipe the screen. My social media app opens to the memories page. Pictures of me from a decade ago, covered in flour as I baked cookies for a school bake sale with my mom, flood the screen, bringing a smile to my face.
She always believed I had what it took to become a baker, always urged me to chase after my dreams even if someone told me I’d never measure up. It’s her voice in my head that reminds me this bakery is a blessing. I just need to get out of my feelings about it being kept a secret .
I continue scrolling and my breath catches in my chest when a picture of me and Archer slides onto the screen. We’re sitting beside each other in the library, books spread across the wooden table, laughing about something. The knot in my chest loosens as I think about how easy things used to be between us, how comfortable we were in each other’s presence.
We were baby-faced college students hopped up on caffeine and delirious with exhaustion during finals. We spent every waking moment together, and I remember being enraptured by him and his good looks, like every other girl in our graduating class. He was charismatic, funny, and nice to me. He didn’t ostracize me for memorizing the periodic table or for my funky clothes, he made it a point to include me in everything he and Jessie did.
The reminder of Jessie barrels through me and I’m right back where I started, wallowing in my grief. On a whim, I delete all the dating apps from my phone. Right now, the only thing I should be focused on is the bakery my husband left me.
Shantel told me before she left that if I want the bakery, it has to be opened by the end of the year or else the city council is going to petition to have me evicted from the spot. I doubt they can actually do that, though I wouldn’t put it past them to try.
I remind myself of all the positive things that can come from this: the freedom to make the desserts I want, a store I can decorate however I please, and the chance to make my mom and Jessie proud. It’ll all be worth it once I see the open sign in front of my bakery.
My phone chimes with messages from Nora telling me to come over. I force myself to get out of bed and dressed. She doesn’t live far, so at least the drive is short.
Nora’s house smells of apples and cinnamon—her favorite fall scents—when she opens the door with a wide smile. Inside the foyer, a cascade of white pumpkins are stacked on and around two vintage suitcases, and by the splash of maroon and burnt orange décor across the fireplace mantle in the living room, it’s apparent Nora is ready for Autumn—even though temperatures don’t get below sixty until at least January in San Antonio.
“Thanks for stopping by.” Nora ambles toward the hallway, waving me over with a weathered hand. “Shantel said you might want to check through some of these boxes.”
“Boxes?” I set my keys on the hook and follow her.
She ignores my question, continuing to Jessie’s old room. A loud thump in the garage startles me. I glance at the closed door, worried her pipes may be about to burst when the clonk sounds off again above me.
“Is something wro—”
“Here you go, pumpkin.” She opens Jessie’s door, and my mouth pops open at the boxes stacked neatly against the wall.
His entire childhood fits in ten boxes.
“You inspired me to go through his stuff to donate to the local shelter.” She stares at the room with a forlorn look, as if the now bare walls are an exact replica of her heart after losing her son. She blinks away a tear, and the corners of her mouth lift as she inhales a cleansing breath. “I’ve needed to do that for a while now.”
Warmth spreads through my chest at the light in her eyes. It wasn’t only me that was living with the past, shackled down by the weight of loss, unable to move forward in a life where half of my heart was missing.
Another thump from the ceiling startles me. “What is that? ”
Nora huffs. “A leak in the ceiling. Found it the other day when it rained all over my car…inside the garage. Had to call the best handyman in town.” She stops outside the doorway and turns back, placing a box of tissues on the long dresser. “If you need anything, let me know.”
I watch her walk into the garage, curious as to what handyman she called. Normally, Archer would’ve been the one summoned, but seeing as his car wasn’t in the driveway when I pulled up, she must’ve hired someone else.
Before I have a chance to get grumpy about everything that happened, I let my gaze fall to Jessie’s belongings. My fingers twitch, and heat prickles my skin as I step toward the first box. Last time I went through his stuff, I found paperwork that led to the discovery of the bakery.
What secrets will I find this time?
With a deep breath, I open the first box. Sketch after sketch of characters from Jessie’s favorite anime show are piled inside, the orange and yellow colors still vibrant years later. Imagining him lying on his bed watching the cartoon, trying to get the exact curve of Goku’s hair correct, makes me smile. I lay a few of my favorites to the side and move on to the next box. Business certificates, licenses, and employee records are inside, and I grab it to drop off to his old business partner who bought his portion of the company after he passed.
Between his retro console collection—a Sega Genesis, an Atari, a Super Nintendo, an N64, an Xbox, and two different Playstations—and his baseball card collection, some kids will be very happy to receive these items. I spend the next hour filtering through his favorite band t-shirts, his educational awards, sports memorabilia, and more trinkets like the box he kept at our house. My husband was very good at organization for his business, but apparently not so much when it came to getting rid of things he didn’t need anymore.
A small box in hand, I take one last look at what was my husband’s teenage room. It feels different than I expected. There isn’t a weight on my shoulders, nor did I need to reach for the tissues the entire time I was rifling through the boxes. A sense of peace overwhelms me, as if he’s up in Heaven, cheering me on for keeping my promise to restart my life.
I step out into the hall, closing the door behind me. I don’t look back but forward, heading away from the past and toward the future.
A clang inside the garage stops my feet outside the door. Nora’s laugh chimes loudly, and I can’t help but look inside to see what’s going on. She stands at the foot of a ladder with her head tilted toward the ceiling where half of a body disappears into the attic access. The man stretches, and the black tee beneath his flannel shirt rises enough to reveal smooth tan skin covering a ripped abdomen and a deep V disappearing into his pants. Tight Wrangler jeans showcase muscular legs and a round butt, and places I thought long dormant awaken in the pit of my belly.
I’m too busy salivating over the bottom half and how the denim strains against his muscles to realize the handyman is moving down the ladder.
The box slips from my hands, clattering to the ground when my gaze lands on the face attached to the physique I was just admiring. A pair of luminous green eyes ensnare mine, and vomit shoots up my throat as I’m frozen in place.
What the fuck?
Holy shit.
My cheeks heat, and I immediately admonish myself for checking him out. Objectively, I’ve always known Archer was good-looking. He’s an all-American type of guy, and we shared one drunken, passionate kiss in college where he made it clear he wasn’t interested in more than friendship. But it’s been years since I noticed him in that way.
That’s what I get for my social media scrolling session this morning. Maybe I should take Shantel up on the offer to set me up on a date. I blink rapidly, trying to convince myself this isn’t happening—that I wasn’t just drooling over my husband’s best friend.
Snapped from my daze by a cleared throat, I drop to the floor and gather the contents of the box.
“Need some help?” Nora crouches to pick up the items that flew into the garage, and my skin flames in embarrassment.
“Thanks,” I murmur, shuffling through excuses that would explain what just happened. The earth tilted and I tripped. There was a banana peel on the ground. I had a momentary lapse in judgment and checked out Archer. None of those reasons seem to convey the shame I feel, and for some reason all I blurt out is, “Sweaty hands.”
“Here you go.” Archer holds one of Jessie’s sketches out for me to grab, and for once his face is devoid of the usual smirk he wears like a second skin. “He could’ve been an artist.”
“Uhh…” I stammer, still unable to formulate coherent sentences. “Yeah, he could’ve.” I look down at the box, fighting the urge to flee the house—and maybe move to another state. I turn to Nora, hoping she can’t see the sweat on my forehead. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’ll get out of your hair.”
“You didn’t interrupt anything, Puddin’.” She turns to Archer with a raised brow as if to inconspicuously convey a message. “I’ll go pour us some sweet tea.”
“Oh, no need.” I hike a thumb over my shoulder. “I’ve gotta get going.”
She ignores me and continues into the kitchen. Archer toes the floor with his brown cowboy boot, clearly wanting to say something but holding back. I secure the box under my arm and turn. As I reach for the handle, I realize something and spin around.
“Where’s your truck?” I ask. “I didn’t see it in the driveway. ”
He chuckles, flashing the smirk I’ve grown accustomed to. “Heard that spot was reserved.”
Surprised at his candor, I bark a laugh. “Ahh, I see.”
“Parked up the street when Nora told me you were stopping by.” He shrugs, rolling a flannel sleeve to his bicep. A moment passes between us where neither of us knows what to say, but it’s Archer that breaks the silence. “I’ll be at the bakery location tomorrow, if you want to stop by.”
The mention of the bakery shatters the chaotic swirling of my mind. Twisting my ring around my finger, all I manage to do is nod before escaping out the front door. Inside my car, I press a shaky hand to my forehead. Though my skin feels like it’s on fire, my head is cool to the touch.
Maybe I’m coming down with something.
I shift my car into gear and head home to take a long shower.
***
The last time I stood in front of this building Jessie let me think it had been purchased out from under me. I cursed the owner for taking my dream location, dashing any hopes I had of selling my desserts. This time, I’m filled with pride knowing the bakery I’ve dreamt about since I was a kid is finally going to be mine.
As long as I don’t kill the carpenter before the work is complete.
Loud banging emanates from behind the new door Archer must’ve hung, and I steal a few short breaths, hyping myself up to finally see what the inside looks like. I wrap my hand around the knob, but my gaze snags on the glinting diamond I’ve yet to be able to remove from my finger. I close my eyes against the threat of tears. I should be stepping through this threshold with Jessie, but instead, the only thing that accompanies me through the doorway is the ache of his loss .
The tarp-covered floor shifts under me as I stare in awe at the place I’m going to make into my bakery. I inhale the sappy scent of wood shavings, allowing the aroma to bring a smile to my face.
“Hello?” I choke out over the thunk of a hammer.
“Over here,” Archer’s muffled voice sounds from behind a toolbox.
Breath ekes out of me when he lifts his head and I catch the first sight of his trimmed facial hair. The dark circles under his eyes are more pronounced, and the brown hair beneath his backwards hat has more strands of gray than I remember. After chatting with my therapist last night about my reaction to checking out Archer, she assured me that it’s human nature to appreciate the opposite sex, that it most likely has nothing to do with who he is, but that I’m slowly healing and opening my heart to potential like we talked about—even though the thought makes me want to barf.
“Anyone ever told you staring is rude?” Archer slams the toolbox lid, leaning on top with a smirk I haven’t seen for ages. He spins his poker chip in his fingers, and his eyes take a journey from my bright yellow rainboots to my rainbow leggings and land on my solid blue top. “Haven’t seen you wear an outfit like this in a long time.”
If it was anyone else, I’d assume that comment was a come-on, but not with Archer. Him being attracted to me would be like cats being attracted to dogs.
I’m trying to get back a piece of myself and improve my mood by wearing clothes that make me happy, and if he has something snarky to say, he can shove it where the sun don’t shine. I shift my attention away from him and take in the room. It smells of cedar and pine, but soon the air will be filled with the slightly sweet, yeasty aroma of baked goods.
The exposed beams running along the ceiling make the room seem larger, perfect for hanging holiday and event decor. Three long shelves are placed behind what I assume will be the checkout counter, and I can’t wait to fill them with colorful take-out boxes with my bakery’s name in script across them. I imagine tables packed with people, mouths happily devouring my delicious treats.
“I can smell you thinking from over here,” Archer says with a more playful tone than I’ve heard in a while.
“Why are you so weird? Who says that?”
He shrugs and turns away from me, and I focus my attention on the work he’s done. My imagination runs rampant with all the ideas I had for this bakery, a blueprint of where I wanted every single shelf, counter, and table.
My eyes land on a shelf adhered to the side wall. “Oh no.”
“What’s wrong?”
“That’s not where that goes.” I stifle the urge to be angry that he’s made decisions in my bakery without consulting me. After talking with Shantel, I realize they were all just trying to wait it out but still keep my dream alive if they could.
He grunts. “Where what goes?”
I point and his gaze follows. “That should be on this wall.”
“What are you talking about?” He pulls a rag from his back pocket, lifts his hat and wipes along his brow.
I clomp over to the shelf and wave my hands like Vanna White. “This doesn’t belong here.”
Heat invades my space as Archer leans down to meet my eyes. I’m 5’7, and he’s only about seven inches taller than me, but the weight of his stare makes me feel like a garden gnome he’s about to kick over.
“Yes, it does.” He stares at me for a second with narrowed eyes, biting down on his lip like he’s debating whether he should say whatever is brewing behind his emerald eyes. Pushing back from the shelf, he walks to the counter. “You said you wanted a space to hold kid's baking classes, and if that shelf was on the opposite wall or moved, you wouldn’t have room to do that.”
Brain malfunctioning, I find myself at a loss for words. The weird feeling snaking around my chest is unwelcome, but I don’t know how to stop it. I haven’t talked about my dream of teaching kids to bake since college, before he froze me out.
“How do you remember that?” I ask, curious if Jessie gave him instruction on how I’d want things done.
“You mentioned it the night we all went to Enchanted Rock before finals,” he says, gaze focused on the level before him.
“Oh.” How he remembers that night is beyond me. We all drank too much under the stars. He picks up a hammer, and I scramble to follow. “What can I help with?”
“I don’t need your help.” He crouches down to grab a slab of wood flooring.
I shrug off my jacket and kneel beside him. Goosebumps raise the hairs on my arms, and pressure settles onto my chest just from the sheer closeness of him. I wiggle away, putting distance between us.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
I pretend to push up my invisible sleeves with a smile. “I’m helping.”
He closes his eyes and inhales like it’s taking everything in him not to throw me out. “I don’t need your help.”
Frustrated, I throw my hands in the air. “What the hell, Archer?”
“Don’t start,” he says.
I nearly laugh. Has any woman ever actually stopped after a man made it a point to tell her whatever she’s about to say is going to start an argument? I think not.
“No. You—” I point at him, “—don’t start. This is my bakery.”
“It’s not yours yet.” He covers his mouth as if he didn’t mean to say that.
But he’s right. Up until recently I had no idea about this building Jessie bought—because they kept it from me. I swallow against the sour taste in my mouth.
“It’s not a bakery until everything is finished,” Archer adds when I don’t speak, trying to walk back his statement. “And I’m the one doing the work on it.”
My voice lowers. “Then I’ll find someone else.”
“No,” he growls.
A weird warmth floods my stomach and launches my heart into my throat.
“End of conversation,” he snaps.
My shoulders fall, and I ball my fists at my side. He pauses what he’s doing and sighs loudly before handing over a slab of flooring. I figure it’s best not to poke the bear when he’s finally decided to stop pawing at me, but inside I’m doing a happy dance.
I slide the lip of the flooring under another one, and the victorious snap of them locking in place makes me grin. I chance a look at him, but the minute he notices me looking, his half smile falls.
“Good job.” He stands and walks to another part of the room. “You can finish that while I…uh work over here.”
Coffee curdles in my stomach, and I run my tongue across my teeth, trying not to feel the sting of rejection. I didn’t particularly want to work beside him either, but knowing he deems being around me such a burden makes my heart twist.
When Jessie was still alive, Archer would at least crack jokes or be semi-cordial; now he can barely stand to be in the same room without making me feel two inches tall .
Ignoring the stab of embarrassment, I finish the row where Archer stopped. Music blares to life, a rock song I’m vaguely familiar with, as I set my focus on another row of flooring. No words are spoken in the time it takes me to make it halfway to the door, and I don’t pay attention to the grunting man lifting shelving over his head in front of me. With sweat sliding down my spine, I sit back on my heels and groan as I try to get up.
“You okay?” Archer asks.
I huff, placing my hands on the floor and pushing up to my feet. “Yeah, I just haven’t been on my knees like that in a while.”
His snicker alerts me to the innuendo I didn’t intend.
“I didn’t mean…What I meant was I haven’t been on my knees since…oh my god, stop talking Tilly.” My cheeks heat and I cover my face with my hands since I can apparently no longer string together a coherent sentence.
Archer laughs again, and a weight lands on my shoulder. My mouth parts, lungs seizing when I realize it’s his hand.
On my shoulder.
“Sorry.” He recoils, staring at his hand like it’s a sentient being rather than the first thing that has touched my body in two years and not doubled me over in crushing anxiety.
I almost forgot how soothing touch can be, how it can bring back memories long forgotten. Tingles spread down my collarbone and convene in my chest, reminding me of my wedding day, the last time Archer ever hugged me. My eyes are glued to the spot where the heat from his hand has burned through my shirt and branded itself on my skin. The adrenaline flooding my system makes me dizzy.
“I’ve got to…drop off desserts for the restaurant.” I stumble backward, nearly tripping over the bo x of flooring.
“Tilly.” Archer’s voice is strained, but I can’t stop.
“It’s fine.” I turn toward the door. “I’m fine.”
Outside the bakery, the door a barrier between us, I realize I’m not fine.
Not one bit.
“It’s just a reaction, Tilly,” I coach myself as I walk to my car. “Anyone would react that way to being touched after not having felt human contact in so long.”
I hear the words I’m speaking aloud, but I know they’re only a sliver of the truth. If I was fine, I wouldn’t have wanted him to touch me again. My heart wouldn’t be doing a conga line around my lungs thinking about how the first touch I crave since my husband’s death is his best friend’s.