Page 313 of Hate Mates

"Insufferable, arrogant, stubborn…" I seethe, yanking off my coat and throwing it over a chair.

Adam is impossible. Always has something to say, always has to be correct, always looking at me like I don't belong. Like he's just waiting for me to fail.

Well, I won't.

I inhale sharply and march into the kitchen, rolling up my sleeves.

If there was ever a time for pastry therapy, it's now.

I wipe my cheeks with the back of my hand, and stare at my empty kitchen. Croissants. I'll make croissants.

I measure out the flour, sugar, and salt, the familiar motions grounding me. The yeast bubbles in warm milk, and I stir it in, working the dough until it comes together in a soft, sticky mass.Kneading takes effort; press, fold, turn. The rhythmic motion steadies my breathing, my muscles stretching and working, forcing my mind away from Adam, and back into my body, into the present.

After the first rise, I punch down the dough with more force than necessary. Then comes the butter; cold, firm, unyielding. I roll it between sheets of parchment, shaping it into a perfect rectangle, before folding it into the dough. It feels good, methodical.

Roll, fold. Chill. Roll, fold. Chill.

The tension in my chest eases slightly with each turn, but Adam's words still linger.Laid out in a hospital bed, or worse.

I swallow hard, my rolling pin pressing into the dough. I reach the final turn, then the last long chill before shaping. By the time I cut the triangles, and roll them into tight little crescents, dawn has begun to stain the sky pale blue.

The kitchen is filled with a butter scent, as the croissants puff in the warm air. I brush them with egg wash, watching the sheen catch the light. Finally, they enter the oven, the heat driving away the last of the night's chill.

When they emerge, golden brown and impossibly delicate, I finally exhale. I break one open, steam curling into the air. The layers are perfect; thin, crisp, impossibly light. I take a bite, and for a moment, just a moment, everything else fades away.

But then, the silence creeps back in. The empty kitchen. The ache in my chest. I can't just sit here in the silence anymore.

I snag the picnic basket from the pantry. I put in the croissants first, then a jar of strawberry jam, and a dish of soft butter.

For an extra treat, I tuck in a wedge of brie, and a handful of fresh berries. And at the last second, I grab a thermos of strong, dark coffee, along with my favorite mug.

With the basket packed, I slip outside, searching for a quiet spot where I can sit, breathe, and, just for a little while, let the world fade away. My eyes land on the hay loft that overlooks the pasture, and I smile.

"Perfect."

I pull the ladder back out and prop it up. I stand at the bottom and stare at the loft momentarily. From below, it looks higher than I remember, and I hesitate, but gather my basket anyway and climb up.

The loft smells of warm hay and wood dust, the familiar scents wrapping around me like a warm blanket. Sunlight filters through the slats in the barn walls, casting thin golden beams across the wooden floor. Dust motes dance in the light, drifting lazily through the still morning air.

I set the basket down before sinking onto the floor, my back resting against a beam. From up here, the view of the pasture stretches wide, rolling green and peaceful. Adam’s cows graze lazily in the distance, and the soft bleats of the goats drift up from the stalls below.

I exhale slowly, my shoulders finally relaxing as I open the basket. I tear a croissant in half, spreading a little strawberry jam on the soft interior, and take a bite, savoring the way the sweetness melts into the rich, delicate pastry.

For the first time since last night, my thoughts quiet. No Adam. No arguments. No lingering heat from a fight that shouldn't have mattered so much.

Just me, the morning, and a perfect croissant.

But as I take another bite, staring out over the sunlit pasture, I can't shake the feeling that something is still unsettled.

Then, I hear it; the familiar rattle of the barn door.

"Oh, no." I brush the crumbs from my hands and try to stand, but can't reach my feet in time. I hear another rattle and can't help but curse.

I'm not gonna make it.

I am not gonna make it.

I'm almost to the loft's edge when the ladder tumbles. I reach the edge and look over, to see Emmanuel's head butting the ladder across the barn floor.

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