Page 187 of Never Let You Go

There’s two minutes left on it, but it’s all background noise of walking and going up stairs. Some grunting. Christopher’s navy-blue comforter.

Then it goes dark, and there are no more videos.

“Do you want to call him?” Sarah asks.

Yes, yes I do want to call him. I want to hijack the bus and tell the driver to take me straight back to Emerald Creek. I want to be in his arms, his mouth claiming mine. I want to revert time.

But I’m a strong woman. I’m expected at Red Barn Baking in a couple of hours. Barbara is working hard for me. And a lot of people’s lives are going to be better thanks to me. So I’m going to focus on this, for now.

“No, I’m not going to call him.”

fifty-six

Alexandra

The company car drops me off at Red Barn Baking and smoothly pulls off the curb to drive Sarah straight to our Brooklyn apartment. The perk of owning the company, like Sarah said.

My best friend is way more excited than I am by this whole turn of events in my life.

The offices at Red Barn Baking are just as sterile as I remember them. No smell, controlled temperature, hushed sounds of computer clicks and voices behind doors.

I go straight to Barbara’s office, only to find it occupied by a new face.

Right.

Barbara was let go.

For now.

But I know she’s here, because she said so herself.

I make for the conference room two doors down—because where else would the meeting take place—and am greeted by familiar faces.

On the longer side of the table, facing the windows, the same man and woman from the law firm who handled Rita’s will. They’re wearing light-colored suits this time around. It’s summer. Neat piles of documents in front of them like six months ago, except thicker, with colored little stickers poking out for signatures. The man is nervously flicking his pen. The woman shoots glances at me, like I’m about to do something as outrageous as take a pee break in the middle of a meeting again.

Barbara is sitting across from them, with equally neat files in front of her. The top one is labeled RBB 2.0.

Nice.

She winks at me. I smile back. We’ll hug later. No point rubbing anything in.

The spot at one end of the table—under the poster of a red barn in a picturesque Vermont landscape complete with hot baker in plaid flannel shirt holding a big, wholesome bread that is definitely not on the menu of any Red Barn Bakery anywhere in the country—is occupied by Robert’s usual accessories: A fat, black fountain pen with a stylized snowflake on the cap—I’ve been told it’s expensive; A notebook in leather binding; A bottle of Perrier, and a crystal glass with our logo etched on it.

The logo is killer.

We’re totally keeping the logo.

Everything else is up for discussion.

Except maybe the poster. My eyes keep returning to the baker in the painting. Something about the way his hair falls over his left eye. Something about his shy grin.

I take my seat at the opposite end of the table.

My eyes fall back on Barbara. “We’re missing a few people,” I tell her.

Robert strolls in, checks his watch, loudly pulls out his chair and slumps into it. Avoids making eye contact with me.

“I thought we could bring them in for the second part of the meeting,” Barbara says, glancing at Robert, then at the lawyers.

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