46. Tilly
Chapter forty-six
Tilly
C hristmas is supposed to be the most amazing time of the year. It’s supposed to be filled with beautiful lights, warm nights by the fireplace, and thankfulness for everything you’ve been blessed with throughout the year, not sadness. I walk through The Pearl, taking in the magnificent Christmas tree lit up with a million tiny lights, the kids running around the Astroturf, and the fountain lit up blue to pretend like it’s actual snow, and I remind myself that it’s okay that I’m one of a small group of people who experience the Christmas season differently.
I used to love caroling with my mom, baking cookies on Christmas Eve, and staying up late to watch multiple runs of A Christmas Story with a mug of hot cocoa, snuggled between my parents. Some of those same traditions transferred over to my relationship with Jessie and his mom and sister, but now that he’s gone, the place where my Christmas spirit lived feels…vacant.
“Ho, ho, ho,” a volunteer Santa crows as I pass him in my oversized black sweater and black yoga pants. It’s a week before Christmas, and I’m sure I look like the grim reaper of the ghost of Christmas past. The bubbly, quirky Tilly I was two weeks ago is gone. An oppressive weight came with the season change, and it’s settled into my bones.
Feeling sorry for the old man stuck out in the cold, nary a flurry in sight, I grab a couple dollars from my purse and shove them into the red donation bucket. He slides a small candy cane into my hand, and I promptly pass it off to a little kid as I make my way to the bakery.
Lights flicker to life when I open the back door and flip the switch. The kitchen area is spotless, neatly organized, with each shelf properly labeled. It’s the only part of my life that feels…right. I toss my purse onto the table and preheat the oven before checking on the cooler and freezer, ensuring their temperature held over the weekend.
I pull the small tray of coconut cinnamon rolls I made yesterday from the rack and place them on the table. A warmth rises in my chest as I grab the ingredients to make the pineapple icing. Baking is my happy place, where my creativity flows freely without opinions or discouraging words.
The oven dings, and I push the cinnamon rolls inside, setting the timer before I walk out to check the front. Multi-colored lights reflect into the bakery from the lamppost outside, garland strung across the poles lining the sidewalk. The colors dance along the floor as the breeze whips them back and forth, and there’s a soft trumpet playing somewhere close, its sad tune echoing down the empty road.
I rest against the windowsill, exhausted from putting the finishing touches on the bakery. Having to hire another contractor was the most difficult part about getting this place ready. There weren’t many things left to finish outside of a few shelves and anything the inspector found that wasn’t up to code, but not having Archer here to go through things with me was terrifying.
The mayor stopped by to look at the place, telling me he’s glad Archer finally got the place up and running because the other people on the street were breathing down his neck to sell the boarded-up eyesore to someone who’d open something inside. Knowing this place used to be a restaurant that Archer bought to use as a hardware store before he gifted it to me for my bakery, I understand their frustrations. The plywood was bringing down the look of the entire street.
The timer goes off, and I head into the back to pull out the cinnamon rolls. As they cool, I go through the list of businesses I’d like to drop off flyers at or trade marketing with. Most of them are offices I expect might want to order cakes for birthdays or business meetings, and a few event planners that cater to weddings. Getting the word out about my bakery is the priority right now, and even though I’m excited for the grand opening, I can’t find a blip of happiness.
Archer’s texts appear in my mind, and I bring it up on my phone, touching the screen as if I can feel the words on my skin.
I hope your grand opening goes well.
I wish things were different.
I love you.
Emotions choke me as I spread the pineapple icing over the rolls, wiping away tears with the sleeve of my sweater. Everything in this bakery reminds me of him, of what he did for me. The punny light he hung, the sign he made me that sits above the shop, the bakery case he drove hours away to buy me then fucked me against like it was his dying wish. His touch is ingrained into every fiber of my being, and my bakery.
All these things were showing me that he truly knew me, that he truly loved me, and I threw it all away because he was too scared to tell me, to fight for me all those years ago. Because his parents, and even me, made him feel so unworthy of love that when it finally came time for him to have it, he didn’t feel like he deserved it.
Gulping down air, I sob and slide down to the ground, curling into a ball as a blast of nausea rolls into my core. My stomach twists with the realization I threw away my second chance at true love. That all the time we spent working on this bakery wasn’t enough to keep us together, to show us that we were exactly right for each other.
***
“It smells in here.”
I pop my eye open, cursing the sliver of light landing directly in my pupil as Shantel drops something onto my dresser with a clink and plops onto the bed beside me.
“No one asked you to break into my house,” I say, pulling the covers over my head.
She rudely steals the covers, bunching them on the other side of the bed. Her belly is rounder since I last saw her, and I reach out, waiting for her to tell me if I can touch the cute bump. She scootches closer, grabbing my hand and laying it directly where the baby is softly kicking. She’s not far enough along for me to feel the gymnastic tumbling the baby likes to do, but knowing there are little flutters and kicks going on beneath my hand brings me a tiny bit of joy.
“You haven’t left this house in days.” She rises from the bed and opens the curtains. Like a vampire, I shriek at the sudden glaring light, waiting for it to melt my skin and leave me nothing but bones. She laughs and rolls her eyes. “You’re so dramatic.”
“What do you want?” I groan, sliding out of bed and heading to the bathroom. A wave of dizziness makes my steps falter. I press my hand against the cool marble sink top and curse myself for not eating yesterday.
She follows, leaning against the door jamb with her arms crossed. “You didn’t come to Sunday dinner.” She looks around with a frown on her face. “And it looks like you’ve been in bed for a few days. What gives? Are you sick?”
I drag a brush through my tangled hair and shrug. “I’m fine. ”
She moves quickly, grabbing the brush from my hands. I’m stunned, momentarily worried she’s going to hit me with it, but she takes my hair in her hands and starts to brush it. I sag with relief, closing my eyes as the knots come undone.
“It’s okay to need someone to take care of you,” she whispers.
My throat aches, and I press my hands onto the sink top, willing the anxious energy away. “I know.”
“But do you?” she replies, eyes challenging me in the mirror.
I look away from her penetrating stare. I’m not sure what she expects me to say. It’s Christmas season, without Jessie, and the man I thought I’d found a second chance with is a thousand miles away. I can barely manage to look at the bakery without breaking into tears. I’m constantly sick to my stomach, and I can’t stop crying. The solace of my home is where I needed to be.
Alone.
“What do you want me to say?” I ask.
She walks over to the shower and turns it on, steam filling the air within seconds. I’ve never been more thankful for the on-demand water heater Jessie had installed before he died.
“Get in, then we’ll talk.”
Like a child, I nod and return to the bedroom to find clothes. My bracelet sits atop the dresser, the mixing bowl charm lying flat where Shantel must’ve dropped it. A small smile takes over my face. When I found the gift after the wedding, Jessie didn’t know where it came from, but I thought maybe he had bought it and forgot about it. After reading Archer’s journal and finding out it came from him, I realize I should’ve known .
The thought stabs me in the chest where my already broken heart is hanging on by a thread, and I shove the bracelet into the drawer and grab some clothes.
Hot water beats against my back, loosening the tense muscles in my neck. I squirt the body wash onto my loofah and the scent of apples fills the air. My stomach tumbles like a washing machine, and I press my hand against my breastbone, trying to calm my speeding heart. Vomit threatens, and I lean against the cool tile wall until the sensation abates.
When I first lost Jessie, I didn’t eat for days. It took Nora and Shantel rallying around me, forcing me to finally nibble on some crackers. Even after I started eating, the loss still kept my stomach on a constant roll of nausea and hollowness. I wonder if my body is responding the same way because it remembers what it feels like to lose love. I’ve heard it said that grief is the price we pay for loving one another, but I feel like I’ve overpaid on my account. I’m due for a refund.
I hold my breath and wash the soap out of the loofa. The fresh steam quells the uneasiness swirling in my stomach. I shut off the shower and towel myself dry before I slip into a fresh set of pajamas and throw my hair into a messy bun.
“What are you wearing?” Shantel asks when I walk into the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water.
“Clothes?”
She laughs and cracks an egg into a bowl. “Go change, we have flyers to hand out.”
My finger dances around the rim of the glass, eyes cast downward. “I’m going to sell.”
An egg falls to the ground, cracking and spewing albumen across my kitchen floor. I hurry to clean up the spill with paper towels, and Shantel stands still with her eyes trained on me .
“No, you’re not.”
I sigh, emptying the trash into the bin. “I can’t do it.”
“It’ll get easier once you’re open and busy.”
The invisible wound in my chest reopens when I think about opening the bakery alone. He was supposed to be here with me. His touch is everywhere, and nowhere at the same time. I can’t look at the shelf he spent an hour redoing because I put it together wrong, or the stupidly cute sign he bought that pulls together the funky style of the place, and I definitely can’t look at the bakery case without thinking about his body pressed against mine.
If I can’t have him, then I don’t want that bakery location.
Resolution settles in my gut.
“What are you thinking?” she asks, whisking another egg as the pan heats.
“What do you mean?”
She smiles. “You have that look in your eye like you’re about to do something wild.”
I laugh, but she’s right. She’s known me long enough to see when something is percolating inside my mind. I pushed Archer away because I was scared I wasn’t enough, and that I was too much at the same time. I didn’t give him a chance to truly show me he was serious about us, and instead of trusting his words from the book, I turned it around on him and made him feel like a cheap fling to me. I closed the door on my second chance, and it’s up to me to pry the door back open and put myself out on a limb.
I grab my laptop, restarting it as Shantel pours the eggs into the pan. The sizzling and popping of the oil is the background to my airline deep-dive, which takes less than five minutes .
“Are you going to visit him?” Shantel sets the plate of eggs in front of me.
I catch a whiff of something rotten, and my stomach roils. A sharp intake of air doesn’t clear the nausea and I’m out of my seat, headed toward the trash can to dry heave. Bile burns my esophagus because I haven’t eaten anything.
“Oh my gosh. Are you okay?” Shantel rubs my back as my stomach continues to constrict.
A minute passes, and the wave is gone. I step back from the trash can, and Shantel hands me a napkin to wipe off my face. I blink a few times to clear the tears from dry heaving and sit back at the table.
“Tilly.” Shantel’s voice is deep, a command. “Look at me.”
My cheeks heat, embarrassed by the state of my appearance and life. I should probably see a therapist again, but they’d probably commit me when I tell them even the smell of food reminds me of the losses I’ve endured. I’m sure Shantel can see my cheeks stained with pink as I look up and into her eyes.
Without a word, a smile cracks her face, and she lunges toward me.