Page 9 of You Cake My Breath Away

“Okay.” Her voice fades, mumbling words to someone else, another uninvited guest to the conversation like my late husband’s best friend. “I’ll see you soon.”

Thankfully, the pottery shop is just a few blocks away from where I’m at now, and I get to pass by the building I always dreamt would be my bakery—had someone not nabbed the space before I could.

Canopies and wide umbrellas are set up in preparation for the weekend farmers market, but thankfully it’s early enough there aren’t a ton of people congregating in the area. I pass a few owners opening their stores, but otherwise encounter only delivery drivers hauling beer from their trucks.

The warmth from the red brick seeps through my worn sandals, the Texas heat bearing down on my exposed neck. I creep toward the plywood covering the door of the building. Whoever leased the building never opened it, a dick move in my humble opinion. I listen closely for any chatter or tools clanking together. When the only sounds I hear are the cars passing behind me, it’s clear no one is here.

Standing in front of the spot where I imagined my career would start, I place a hand over my stomach and will the knots to loosen. I close my eyes and my dream bakery comes alive. Black and white checkered floors leading to the counter with a built-in bakery case. Persimmon lemon pinwheel cookies, dark chocolate habanero cupcakes, and my mom’s favorite pie flavors lining the shelves beside a metal, old-school register that makes the ‘ca-ching’ sound when opened. Tea cups and saucers to dip fig biscotti and Italian cookies, an area to teach kids’ baking classes off to the side…basically everything I’ve dreamed of.

Nearly two years ago, I passed by this exact spot with my husband and made a wish that I could open my own bakery here.

Today, I stand in front of it as a widow with only a desperation that the last year never happened—that I could change my stupid wish of starting my own business to one that would give me Jessie back.

A voice in the back of my head reminds me that though there’s no magic that can reverse time, it’s still possible to make my dream of owning a bakery come true—even if it’s not in the location I originally wanted. I don’t care how difficult the loan process is. Iwillget my lifeback on track and complete the dreams I set out for myself, the ones Jessie knew I could achieve.

My hand hangs heavy at my side, the comforting weight of my wedding ring drawing my attention. I bat away tears that threaten to fall and spin it around my finger, soothed by the good memories it brings to mind.

With one last look at the building where I should be selling sweet treats, I head down the road. Hair raises on my arms when I see the mass of people hanging around the square. I scan the crowd for a way to pass through without touching anyone—even the thought of someone accidentally bumping me chafes—but there’s no space. I’m embarrassed and frozen on the outskirts, waiting for a clear path as I try to calm my jitters. A walkway opens near the food hall, and I breathe a sigh of relief as I scurry toward the entrance.

Careful not to set off my touch anxiety, I stay away from the more densely packed area in front of the jazz bar, skirting the crowd, and make it to The Tiny Finch without being touched; in my book, that’s a success.

The ceramic shop is thankfully empty of patrons. Quicker than expected, I pay for Nora’s avant-garde bowl and get on the road to Sunday dinner. Traffic is light as I drive toward Alamo Heights, where the homes range from luxurious mansions to quaint one-story houses with high price tags.

I turn onto Nora’s street and find Archer’s green F-150 parked in my usual spot in her driveway. Sweat coats my palms and I consider driving back home to pretend I came down with a stomach bug. Only it’s pointless. I have to face him eventually—he has the answers I need.

Grabbing the box of treats and Nora’s pottery, I climb out of the car and nudge the door shut with my hip. Archer isn’t inside the truck, butthe leatherbound journal he carries around like a Bible sits on the dash along with a pair of sunglasses.

My stomach knots standing on the front porch as I rehearse the answers to the questions I know they’ll ask.Yes, I’m eating. No, I don’t want to swipe right on his profile. And yes, I totally made his side of the bed.That last one would be a lie. I still haven’t managed to fully make the bed.

Put your big girl pants on, Tilly, I grumble, still considering leaving the treats and pottery on the doorstep and going home so I don’t have to deal with Archer’s awkward silence across the dinner table.

“Are you gonna go in or stand there all day?” I startle backwards at Archer’s gravelly voice—as unmistakable as it is unwelcome—and trip over the lip in the concrete.

The bowl and desserts slip from my hands, and I dive for Nora’s pottery, saving it from an untimely demise on the cement steps. The same can’t be said for my lemon bars. My freshly scraped knuckles sting, but that’s nothing compared to the ache of discovering the bracelet Jessie bought me lying in their ruins. Thank God it can be cleaned, though.

“Where the hell did you come from?” I yell, voice a touch too high as I crouch to pick up the mess, clutching my bracelet and the lemon bar goo now on the chain.

“My truck.” The sarcasm in his voice makes me grit my teeth. “Are you okay, Space Buns?”

I jerk back at his use of the nickname he gave me in college. It used to be endearing, making me feel part of the cool crowd, but now it grates on my already worn-down nerves.

I clear the majority of the lemon goop off my bracelet and reattach it to my wrist while counting backward to calm down. Once upon a time, I would’ve laughed about this with him, maybe even punched him in theshoulder playfully, but those times are long gone, swept away like our caps on the windy day Archer, Jessie, and I graduated from UTSA.

I grab the dessert box and clean up the remnants of my hard work.

“I’m fine,” I reply, dusting off the gravel embedded in my palms.

“What’re these?” He collects the papers that fell out of my purse.

“They’re nothing.” Heart thundering inside my chest, I snatch the papers from his hands without looking at him. “You know, you could help, seeing as it’s your fault.”

Even I bristle at the bite in my voice. I have no clue how to navigate this weird dynamic between us where we’re either snapping at each other or ignoring each other completely.

He grunts. “It’s not my fault you’re so jumpy.”

Tension bunches at the back of my neck. I should bill him for the massage I’ll be needing after this interaction. “Why have you been ignoring my messages?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

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