14. Tilly
Chapter fourteen
Tilly
T he aroma of cocoa tempts me toward an indie bookstore a few blocks from where my bakery will be. Outside, the birds chirp loudly, the sun bathes my skin, and there’s a lightness in my chest that feels suspiciously like…hope. It’s been so long since I’ve been able to see out from under the blanket of grief, to see that there is something to look forward to each day, and I’m realizing that for me, it’s the bakery. I told Archer I’d be there at ten o’clock sharp but seeing as I’m fifteen minutes early, I can spare a few moments to peruse the selection. Excited for the closeness of a fellow entrepreneur, I head inside to introduce myself.
“Hello?” A ding above me announces my arrival, and a melodic voice floats from the back area.
“I’ll be right out.”
Small tables are tucked into the corners of the bookshop, and there’s a counter with an espresso machine and a selection of treats. I knew I’d smelled chocolate, but I assumed it was from coffee, not cookies and pastries. A blip of jealousy creeps into my mind like only one of us can be selling delectable treats, and it’s going to be me.
Enchanted by the smoky vanilla scents of crisp paper and dust, I run my fingers along the spines of the classics on the shelf and wait to see who my competition is going to be. Will it be a cute old lady, using the last of her pension to keep a dying bookstore alive, or is it a hipster who doesn’t know the difference between a romance and a love story ?
The door swings open, and my heart promptly falls to the ground.
Deidre.
Archer’s ex is the last person I thought I’d encounter in a place like this. There’s no way a woman as cold as her owns such a lovely, warm place. Hell, the temperature of the room dropped by at least a cool twenty degrees the moment her eyes locked on me standing with a wide smile at her counter.
She’s always disliked me for some reason, making snarky comments when she thought I wasn’t listening, and she never tried to get to know me when Archer would bring her to family dinners.
“Tilly,” she says, a hint of amusement in her tone.
“Deidre.” I give her a curt smile. “I didn’t know you worked here.”
She nods like a person does when someone is telling them something they couldn’t care less about. “I’ve owned this place for three years.”
I vaguely remember her prattling on about opening a business back when Jessie would force me to go on double dates with her and Archer, but I was so focused on being nice to her that I forgot. A weird feeling snakes its way around my chest, and I spin my ring around my finger to refocus.
Deidre always had this perpetual frown on her face if I entered a room. I thought she’d be the one to lock down Archer. He had a series of women he filtered through, but when he met her, she stuck around. She was always over-the-top touchy feely with him, and a small part of me hated her for it.
Looking back, I wonder if instinctively my brain was picking up on something I’ve yet to even admit to myself. That I knew, even back in college, my life could’ve gone a very different way had a drunken kiss with Archer meant something to him.
“It’s a beautiful bookstore,” I say. “Quaint. ”
Her smile is pasted on, stale. “Thanks.”
Awkward tension hangs in the air between us. “Well,” I start to speak but struggle to find words, “I just wanted to introduce myself to some of the shop owners down here.”
“Oh.” She arches a brow. “Why?”
Straight to the point.
“My bakery is going to be on the next street over.”
Her forehead crinkles, a frown forming on her face. “Oh right, I forgot about the little shop Archer’s been working in.”
A stickiness coats my mouth at the mention of Archer. Did everyone but me know Jessie bought this bakery? Has Archer invited her inside my shop?
“Yeah,” I croak, face heating when she doesn’t respond with any questions. I scramble to find a way out of this awkward encounter. “Umm, ok. Well, if you need anything I’m just around the corner.”
She smiles. “I doubt it, but thanks.”
Her words follow me out the door, my footsteps sluggish as I head to the bakery.
The October sun is unusually blistering today, and my pits are already damp from the short walk from Deidre’s storefront to mine. Okay, I started sweating bullets when she walked out from the back room, but that’s beside the point. My bare legs slide against each other, and I curse my mother for my juicy thighs as they rub. In hindsight, wearing a skort to work in wasn’t my brightest idea, but I’ll be climbing up ladders today and tight denim was an even worse option.
Music blares through the thin wooden door. I knew he’d be here, but it still takes my heart a moment to catch up to my quickened breath. Yesterday felt like a turning point for us, a kind of truce. But with each new day, I wonder how long it’ll be until we’re back at each other’s throats.
“Hey.” I skirt through the door.
He doesn’t look up from the table he’s hunched over, a level and a pencil in hand. “One moment,” he says, drawing a line down the two by four he’s about to cut. The table saw blares to life, screeching as he splits the wood. Now covered in dust, Archer turns to me, a toothpick hanging from the side of his mouth. Dressed in a tight black t-shirt that clings to his abs and denim jeans, Archer is the epitome of a bad boy. A regular James Dean. If only he drove a muscle car instead of a larger-than-life truck.
“Did you bring your camera?” he asks.
“No. Was I supposed to?”
“A picture lasts longer.”
My stomach riots and a wave of shame flows over my face after being caught checking him out. I fight the urge to look guilty, embarrassed. He’d love to see me flinch away, but I’m in the mood to challenge today.
“My memory works just fine,” I reply, toying with the cake charm on my bracelet.
Archer is good-looking. He knows this. He knew I was attracted to him back then, and just because I fell in love with his best friend doesn’t mean I didn’t still find him attractive.
Any red-blooded person would.
Even though we’ve only been working together a short amount of time, it reminds me of college when we were Chemistry partners and I found it exceedingly difficult to keep my eyes on my work.
I seem to be having the same problem now.
Doing projects together was something Jessie and I did. Okay, well watching Jessie put together the IKEA items we bought was more my thing, but I at least provided the caramel balsamic mochis to keep our bellies filled as we laughed over him putting it together wrong.
That must be what it is.
Working with Archer makes me miss Jessie. I’ve been so wrapped up in his gift to me that I haven’t gone for my monthly visit to his grave site. Maybe that’s my problem. I need to remind myself of the man I married.
“What do you want to work on today?” he asks.
My self-control. “Painting.”
He nods and pulls a keyring of swatches from his toolbox.
“Are you prepared for everything?” I ask, surprised as he hands me the paint samples.
They’re all bright colors. Not a dark one in sight, like he knew I wouldn’t dare put a muted color on the walls.
“I was a Boy Scout, of course I am.” He laughs and goes back to marking up another two by four.
I search through the swatches, noting I have clothes in every shade he’s provided. Jessie probably picked out the swatches before he passed.
“I’ll pick up whatever color you choose while I’m out.” He places clear protective glasses over his eyes.
Archer makes safety sexy.
I chastise myself for the errant thought. Why, after years of indifference, is my brain trying to reconnect the pathway to my heart, and below, to Archer , of all people. Annoyed, I grab the roll of light blue chevron wallpaper, holding a lilac swatch against it. The tones are complementary, and an image of the bakery in all its glory fills my mind. White decorative paneling splitting the wall, a splash of color on the top half, and three or four tables for patrons to come for a quick treat and a cup of coffee. It’ll be amazing. Much better than the bookshop around the corner .
Briefly, I imagine a display case filled with Bundt cakes and small bundtlets for the people who want a quick treat rather than a full dessert. The thought brings me back to when I made the wedding cake for Archer’s sister’s wedding, the one he dogged to his friends, and immediately my mood tanks.
“This one is fine.” I throw the swatch on the counter and make a line where the paneling will go.
“Uh, okay.” Archer picks up the paper. “This color will look good with the blue.”
Anger simmers beneath my skin. “I know.”
His face scrunches up like he wants to say something, but he stays mum and goes back to cutting wood. We work in silence for the next two hours, barely speaking to one another. An alarm goes off and Archer slides his phone out of his pocket, his face going from a smile to a slight frown.
I stop myself from asking why he looks like that. We aren’t friends, and his life outside of this building is none of my business. For all I know, he may be meeting someone for an afternoon date.
My shoulders curl inward, drawn by the pulling sensation in my gut.
“I’ve got a meeting.” He unplugs the saw like I can’t be trusted with power tools. “I’ll pick up your paint and a can of primer for the paneling. Anything else you need while I’m out?”
“Nope.” My answer is short, like my fuse at this point.
He leaves, and my entire body sags to the ground. I thought I had to worry about Archer bailing on our project because of how much he dislikes being around me, but I’m dangerously close to pulling the plug because I can’t get a grasp on my own feelings.
A train of envy chugs around my chest, but a prickling in the back of my mind slows the train on its tracks. The only logical answer for the way I feel is that maybe I am ready to get back into the dating field and I’m jealous that dating comes easier to everyone else.
Yeah, that’s gotta be it.
A shrill ring stops my self-destruction, my dad’s ringtone.
“Hey Dad.”
“Tilda,” he says, an air of sadness in his tone. “Where have you been?”
Anxiety curls in my stomach. I hate how he makes it seem like I’ve been avoiding him when he’s the one being sketchy.
I still haven’t told him about the bakery.
Eventually I will, but I’m not ready for him to have an opinion about it yet. I could stay making boring desserts for my parents’ restaurants for the rest of my life, but I need to do this for myself. And Rosie. She’d never forgive me if I gave up making her cupcakes.
My desserts should be in the hands of the people, talked about during school events and birthday parties, maybe even weddings one day.
“Baking.” I run my hands up and down my arms.
“I can tell by the amount of treats,” he laughs. “Shantel dropped off more than your usual haul yesterday, but I haven’t seen you since last week.”
You’d think he would’ve called sooner, but I’m sure it slipped his mind. He’s a busy man, after all. Hell, every time I come to the restaurant I feel like he’s rushing me out, like he doesn’t want to see me. Why is he worried about where I’ve been now?
“I’ve been busy helping Archer with some work at—”
“Archer?” His interruption sets me on edge. “What are you doing with him?”
“I just told you I’m helping him—”
“I thought you were going to start helping Shantel at her salon?”
“Not until the beginning of the year. ”
Damn it, Dad. Would you just shut the hell up?
He continues. “I can find something for you at one of the restaurants.”
“No, Dad.” I sigh. “I’m fine.”
I wish things were different between us, that losing my mom didn’t create this chasm where it feels like we’re on different continents.
“Okay. I’ll see you for dinner this weekend?” he asks with a weird tinge of something akin to hope lacing his tone.
“Sure.”
With a stale ‘I love you’ the line goes silent.
I stare down at the ring I’ve told myself multiple times I’d take off, yet each time I think about doing it, I’m reminded of how alone I feel, and the comfort of having the ring on my finger fills my chest with a sense of peace.
Love is supposed to fill you, but it seems like someone broke the tab on my tank and it’s all spilled out of me, never able to refill. The love Jessie showed me is like droplets clinging to the side of the tank, moments away from evaporating and leaving me dry.