Page 13 of Broken Pact

Mom’s face brightens like a literal lightbulb flashes above her head. She pats the counter top twice. “Oh I know! I’ll have Dad arrange one of his marketing guys in his office to help you narrow down an official name for your little bakery.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, my lips twisting to the side. I spend all of two seconds debating if it’s worth it for me to argue with her or just mildly agree and then talk to Dad later. I clear my throat and blink too rapidly. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Mom exhales and hefts the plates into her arms. “Perfect. I’ll make sure Dad sets it up for you, honey. We’d hate to see Nana Jo’s money sunk into a place that isn’t set up for success.”

“Jesus, Ma. Lay off a bit, yeah?” Beau grumbles under his breath.

“What?” Her head flies to her left, her eyes a touch too wide as she lifts and drops her shoulders dramatically. “She knows I’m just trying to help. Don’t you, honey?” She looks over at me with both brows raised high on her forehead.

“Yeah, Mom,” I say with a sigh.

She flicks her fingers out in a little jazz hand as if to say see, I told you so with a pointed look at Beau.

“Here, Ma, let me grab those,” Beau says, taking the plates from her. “It’s probably my turn to set the table.”

“Well aren’t you the gentleman tonight.” She grabs the silverware and follows him out of the kitchen and into the formal dining room.

“Hey,” Graham murmurs.

I blink a few times and shove those sharp emotions back into the box inside my chest. I glance at him and offer him a weary sort of smile. “It’s fine.”

Concern swims behind blue eyes the same shade as my own. Cornflower blue like the sky on a cloudless day. That’s what Nana Jo always said. They were the same color as my Grandpa Dalton’s eyes, and only Graham and I have the privilege.

“She means well, you know that. She’s just trying to help.”

I curve my palm into a C shape and collect any crumbs on the counter, anything to keep my hands busy so I don’t have to see the pity in his gaze. “Well, I’m fine. I appreciate the concern, but I don’t need it, ya know? I had a hand in making Sugar & Spice what it is today, and I can do it again. On my own terms, for my own brand.”

“I know you can.” He pauses. “Squirt.” He leans forward, knuckles poised like he’s going to give me a noogie as the childhood nickname rolls out of his mouth.

I jerk back, reflexively smoothing a hand over my hair. “I spent thirty minutes curling it today. There’s no way in hell I’m going to let you near it, big brother.”

He drops his hand to the island, rapping his knuckles in a quick beat. “Why’d you get all dolled up for Sunday dinner anyway?”

I flick the ends of my hair over my shoulder, glancing at the graphic tee from a concert I went to a few years ago with my roommates. I only knew one of the opening acts, but it was some of the most fun I’d had in ages with them. I tossed it on over ripped jeans that I know for a fact make my ass look amazing.

He holds his hand up, palm facing me. “Wait. Let me guess: You’re going to a show after this?”

I flash him a grin and gather the glasses, calling over my shoulder, “You know me so well, big brother.”

“Well in that case, let’s hurry this dinner up. Sounds like we both have plans tonight.”

8

CORALINE

The air outside Grand Avenue music venue is thick with the mingling scents of night life: a blend of food trucks, faintly acrid exhaust fumes, and the lingering traces of summer rain on asphalt. I lean against the brick wall five feet from the entrance, propping one foot against the stones and scanning the crowd of concert-goers.

Since Harper bailed tonight, I reached out to a few friends, and we made plans to meet up before the opener. Adelaide, Blanche, and Sophie. They call themselves the golden girls, a small homage to the TV show Blanche was allegedly named after.

Roommates and best friends, the three of them are usually inseparable. I used to hope that I would have the same kind of relationship with my own roommates, but it wasn’t in the cards.

I tried to explain to my brother once that the golden girls are my concert friends—as in we only hang out while at shows. Our paths initially crossed at a huge summer music festival almost a decade ago several states away. I still remember how surprised and delighted I was when we figured out that we all traveled from the same area.

Say what you want about live music, but there is nothing like the energy of a crowd. Seeing an incredible show creates hundreds of tiny bonds between you and everyone else.

The energy is tangible, like I could reach out into the air and wrap my fingers around the threads of electricity. Screaming lyrics and dancing with hundreds or thousands of people is nothing short of magic. It gives me the same kind of high as baking does.

And it’s the perfect distraction from the impending cloud of doom that is my new landlord situation. I feel like it’s my latest accessory, just hovering over me to rain down anxiety whenever I least expect it. I’ll figure it out though. I always do.

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