Page 11 of Knot Baked Out For This
For a second—just one long, painful second—I stand there holding the box like it might explode, like opening it would release something I'm not prepared to deal with, like I could just stand here forever frozen in this moment and never have to make a decision.
But that's not realistic. And I'm supposed to be moving forward. Fresh start. New beginning. All that inspirational poster bullshit that sounds good until you're actually trying to do it.
I shove the box under the sink with more force than necessary. Hidden. Out of sight. Dealt with in the most avoidant way possible, which is honestly very on-brand for me.
No one needs a front-row seat to my emotional carnage—not the neighbors, not future customers, not even me. Especially not me. I've got a business to open and approximately zero emotional bandwidth for unpacking trauma right now.
The kitchen sink is barely functional—the faucet drips, the handles are loose—but the cold water runs clear enough. I tear through a hand wash with cheap soap from the dollar store that bites at my skin, scrubbing until it stings, trying to banish that phantom throb at my throat where my old Alpha's scent used to settle. Where his mark used to be before I had it removed in a clinic that asked no questions and charged too much.
Sometimes I still catch it—that trace of cedar and possession and everything I ran from, lingering behind my own scent of syrup and flannel and sugar. But not today. Not now. Not ever again if I have any say in it, which I finally do.
Hands clean—scrubbed raw, actually—I dry them on my leggings because I have no towels unpacked and I gave up on dignity approximately three hours ago when I started this whole moving process.
Nearly there. Almost done with the hard part. Just need to actually open the bakery and face the reality of owning my own business and all the terror that comes with it.
The bakery is what landed me here, what kept me sane during the divorce proceedings that felt more like a prolonged execution than a legal process. What gave me something to dream about when everything else was falling apart with the grace and subtlety of a dumpster fire in a windstorm.
I stand at the door that connects the apartment to the bakery, palming my keys with sweaty hands. They shake. Badly. Very professionally. Super competent baker behavior right here, really inspiring confidence in my ability to run a business.
Smooth.
The "Closed" sign hangs in the window like it's mocking me, like it knows I'm terrified, like it's daring me to actually go through with this insane plan.
For one stupid, cowardly heartbeat, I want to leave it exactly where it is. Just skip the part where I flip it over and expose myself to judgment and customers and the very real possibility of complete and total failure. Hide upstairs with Muffin and whatever croissants I can stress-bake. Pretend, maybe, that the world doesn't expect anything from Hazel Holloway, that I can just exist in this liminal space forever without actually committing to anything.
But no. This is why I came. This is why I spent every penny I had—and several I didn't—on this place. This is what I've been working toward for two years while living in my sister's basement and saving every dollar and planning my escape from a life that was slowly suffocating me.
The definition of new beginnings, whether I like it or not. Whether I'm ready or not. Whether I'm absolutely terrified or not.
Spoiler alert: I'm terrified.
I flip the sign.
The movement is quick, decisive, before I can second-guess myself into paralysis. No take-backs. All in. Committed now, for better or worse.
Hazel's Hearth & Home is officially open for whatever walks through next.
Light slips across the checkered floor like honey, thick and golden, waking up dust particles and hope in equal measure. The air already tastes like anticipation—flour ghosting through the sunbeams, the promise of warm bread yet to come, possibility hanging in the atmosphere like a dare or maybe a threat.
The ovens squat at the far wall, ancient and temperamental and scarred from decades of use by bakers who came before me. Four of them, all different sizes, all with their own personalities and grudges and opinions about temperature control. Nothing fancy, nothing new or shiny or Instagram-worthy. But they're stubborn. Marked up, charred, storied.
Just like me, if I'm being honest. Marked up by experience, charred by failure, but still here, still standing, still stubborn enough to try again.
I flick the switch for oven one, then two, then three and four in quick succession. They hum to life in stages—first a click that sounds almost reluctant, then the slow roar of ignition, that comforting low-grade warmth that starts at my feet and seeps up through my legs and into bones that have been cold for too long. I pat the side of the biggest one, the way you'd pat a horse before a race or a friend before they do something brave or stupid.
"Don't let me down," I whisper to machinery that doesn't care about my feelings but might respond to bribery and positive reinforcement. "We're in this together now."
I have an hour, maybe less, before people start prowling by outside, pressing their noses to the glass, deciding whether the new bakery is worth their time or just another failed businessin a long line of failed businesses. On Maple Street, the early risers are notorious—they want proof of life from the bakeries, evidence that you're not just playing at this, that you're serious.
The "are they actually open yet" crowd. The "did she burn the scones" gossips. The "will she last a month" pessimists. The usual small-town surveillance that masquerades as community interest.
I set up fast, muscle memory kicking in where confidence has completely abandoned me, years of working in other people's bakeries taking over when my brain wants to panic.
Rolling carts out from beneath the counter with practiced efficiency. Unloading trays in double-time, lining up the proofed sweet rolls along parchment paper so straight you'd think I had a ruler hidden in my apron pocket. I don't. It's just years of practice and an unhealthy need for things to be perfect when everything else in my life is decidedly, catastrophically not.
There's comfort in repetition, in the familiar motions that my hands know even when my brain is screaming. The way soft dough yields under my palms, giving but not breaking. The sound a sharp knife makes cutting through cinnamon logs, that satisfying resistance and then release. The heavy, honeyed thud of batter dropped into a tin, settling into its temporary home before transformation.
I flour the work surface liberally—then flour my hands up to the wrists because I've never been good at moderation with anything, including flour. Clouds of it drift through the air, catching in sunlight like snow that tastes delicious and makes excellent pastries. It gets everywhere, and I mean everywhere. In my hair, on my cheeks, up under my sweater sleeves, probably in my ears somehow.
