Page 2 of Never Nix Up

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Finn

She’s late.

It throws me off my game, because she’s never late, is Hazel.

Every morning, as soon as I open the door to my bakery, she’s there bright and early. She’s the first order of my day, every day, and now that she’s not here I feel… bereft?

That’s a little dramatic.

But that’s how it feels. Like a true loss.

I don’t think I’d realised how much I’ve come to rely on her shy presence each morning. Hazel’s become a part of my daily routine without even realising it, and now that she’s not here, I miss her.

And worse than that, it threatens to throw my day off.

Even as I think that, I know that it sounds silly; a slight deviation from the norm like that shouldn’t throw me off-kilter, only it does. And when shedoesappear in the doorway, paint streaked across her face like makeup, I breathe a little easier.

She doesn’t say anything as she walks up to the counter, each step accompanied with a discreet sniff. You’d never think that a vegan bakery could smell as good as mine does; but Hazel’s daily reactions to the bready scents never fails to make me smile.

“Morning!” I say, and there’s that twitch of her lips in return. “I’ve got your usuals, but I’ve also thrown in the items I want to sell for the Spring Equinox—vegetable tartlets and lemon cakes. Try them out at lunch and let me know what your favourites are?”

Hazel goes on her tiptoes to peek into the box I have open for her, and her eyes widen. “Sure, Finn.”

When she speaks, her voice is so quiet that I have to really listen to hear her. Probably why she comes in before anyone else does.

“Excellent.”

She pays for her breakfast croissant and her lunchtime doughnut, and takes them carefully over to her booth. It’s where she always sits, pulled tight into the corner, where she can see everyone coming in and out of the bakery. I get to making her chai latte. There’s only me in Knead Dough?, and it’s everything I’ve ever hoped for, but it’s hard work and I invested in a fancy coffee machine last year to try and widen the profit margin a smidgeon. Vegan bakeries aren’t exactly plentiful in rural Sussex, and the only reason I’ve done so well is because it’s there’s not much else in Wyrten Bridge.

Hazel and I have businesses in Riverside Shops, an old mill on the river, split into four. There’s Chlo, a queer tailor, in the shop next to mine, and Violet owns the esoteric witchy shop the next one down. Hazel is on the end, next to the bridge, and the four of us have been preparing for the Spring Equinox with ‘A Day at Riverside’. All of us could do with the extra money after a lean winter, so we’ve been trying to rope in the other businesses in the village to get involved.

They’ve been less than enthused, but Kit, the landlady at The Arun Arms, has agreed to have a mead-based menu for the evening, so we can send people over for cocktails and beer after eating, and watching the ritual. No one else wants to be involved.

Hazel is still waiting patiently as I attempt some latte art atop her foamy milk, and I’m rewarded with a shy smile. “You’re getting better,” she says, and it’s not a dig. The first time I tried it looked like a splodge, and Hazel’s been sweetly encouraging me each day. Today I’ve graduated from leaves to a very wobbly heart.

I’m telling myself that’s because it’s a natural progression.

Nothing whatsoever to do with my crush on Hazel. Not at all.

But when she smiles up at me, and her cheeks turn as pink as her hair, it’s all I can do to keep it together.

“I’ll try for a less wobbly heart next time.”

“That’s okay,” she says. “A wobbly heart suits me just fine.” And then she takes a sip of coffee and daintily nibbles her croissants as my daily customers enter the bakery.

It’s Monday, so it’s fairly busy. People buying pastries for their commute, or lunch in the office in town, and Kit stumbles over, half asleep still, to collect a load of fresh baguettes for the sandwiches they offer in the pub at lunch.

“Finn, Hazel.” She nods at each of us in turn, though Hazel avoids her gaze and looks very interested in the contents of her mug. That’s odd. It’s not as if the two of them exactly talk much—neither of them known for being chatty—but I’ve never seen Hazel be avoidant with Kit before.

I look at Hazel, and then back at Kit, and Kit shakes her head to get me to drop it. I do, but when she leaves, and the morning queue quietens, I wander over to Hazel.

“Everything okay with Kit?”

“Uh huh.”

She’s avoiding looking at me, and I’m not going to force eye contact—I’ve had enough autistic friends growing up to know that’s a dick move—but I do want to check in. “Because if something’s happened to make you feel uncomfortable, or?—”

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