Page 95 of You Cake My Breath Away

“I’m sorry.”

She shakes her head. “I knew what I was up against when I started dating you, and it’s my fault for trying to come between what was meant to be.”

Her words float over me, searching for a place to land, but I brush them away. If it was meant to be then it would’ve worked out between us. Noting the time, I thank her for the coffee and let her know I’ve got to catch my flight.

***

Whoever invented headphones is now at the top of the list of my favorite people. The noise canceling feature gives me peace as I’m surrounded by people rushing to and from their gate, each worrying they’re about to miss their flight as Christmas music blares through the airport speakers. I stretch out on the seat, watching as the planes land and take off again, hurtling people toward their destinations.

I grab my ticket from my carry-on to ensure I’m at the correct gate. The black writing pulses like a warning, reminding me I’m headed to a new place. A place where no one knows me or has opinions about my last name and what I might or might not be responsible for. A place where I can become someone else.

“Excuse me.” A woman taps my shoulder. “Is this seat taken?”

I shake my head, moving my bag off the seat. There are plenty of other seats she could’ve sat at, but within seconds her daughter is glued to the window, watching the airplanes take off. My chest tightens when I see the little girl’s tiny space buns and polka dot boots.

As if on cue, my music app decides to play a song from the CD Tilly gave me years ago. I’ve listened to this CD more often than I want to admit. It’s been a comfort, a reminder of the times we jammed out to music while studying. A reminder that she was thinking about me, even if she didn’t know I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

Unbidden, her face from the other night pops into my head. She looked devastated after I gave her the contract, but I couldn’t bear to stand there and not embrace her any longer. She made it clear that what happened between us was nothing more than a fling, but her comments about not being enough to stay for have been niggling at the back of my mind. Did she not read how hopelessly in love with her I was?Still am. How even though she didn’t know it, she was part of every decision I made. When I could’ve moved away and opened my construction business elsewhere, it was her that kept me here.

I don’t know how to convince her she was everything I wanted, everything I dreamed for, when I did such a good job of convincing her for so many yearsshe wasn’t what I wanted.

And now she’s pushing me away.

Like I deserve.

“Flight 61414 to Knoxville will start boarding in five minutes,” a woman’s amplified voice speaks through the intercom system.

I gather my bags and get in line. Passengers around me tell their loved ones goodbye, and my fingers itch to call Tilly, to tell her I’ll do whatever it takes to fix what was broken between us if she’ll give me the chance, but I know it won’t matter. I messed up by not being open about the things I was struggling with and being honest about the circumstances of how our friendship crumbled. Had I known I’d lose her for good, I would’ve cherished the moments I had with her more, savored each laugh, kiss, and touch she blessed me with during our time together.

Heading down the gangway, I pull my phone out of my pocket. My fingers hover over the screen, unsure what to say. Even though I’m sure she’ll delete it, I send her a text wishing her a good grand opening, and as the flight attendants do their last-minute checks, I tack on an ‘I love you’ for good measure.

Chapter forty-six

Tilly

Christmas 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 thered 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 giftedit 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.

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