Page 16 of Knot Baked Out For This
I move behind the counter, hands steady even though my mouth's gone desert dry and there's a familiar tightness in my chest that says anxiety is trying to crash this party uninvited. My fingers reach for the wax paper, start the familiar motions of wrapping pastries that I've done thousands of times before.
As I wrap the croissant with the careful precision of someone who's definitely not eavesdropping, I hear it.
The whisper.
Not even a quiet whisper. More like a stage whisper, the kind that's technically quiet but designed to be overheard, to land exactly where it's meant to land.
"Isn't that her? The Omega from Hollow Lake? The one who?—"
Pause for dramatic effect. Eyebrows raising in that particular way that says "can you believe this." Voice dropping to that fake-conspiratorial level that's actually louder than normal conversation:
"Got sent back. They said she was... defective."
The word slices through the bakery's carefully constructed atmosphere of sugar and hope like a knife through all mycarefully built armor. Straight past my sweater, through my professional smile, past every defense I've erected, and directly into ribs that suddenly can't seem to expand properly.
My hand freezes around the wax paper, caught mid-fold. The croissant sits there, half-wrapped, probably judging my inability to complete basic motor functions while having a minor psychological breakdown.
It's absurd—genuinely absurd in the worst possible way—how quickly old wounds bloom open. How a single word, one carefully chosen syllable, can transport you back to the worst version of yourself. The version you've been running from. The version you thought you'd left behind in a different town with a different name attached to it.
Cheeks flush hot, that immediate physical response I can't control no matter how hard I try. Pulse ratchets up to "minor cardiac event" territory, hammering in my ears loud enough to drown out the background music. My vision narrows to the space between the countertop and my shaking fingers that have apparently forgotten how hands work.
For a second—just one horrible, familiar second that feels like it stretches into eternity—I wish I could shrink. Disappear. Become one of Muffin's fur tumbleweeds, floating under the bakery case, invisible and unjudged and not here, not existing, not the subject of small-town gossip disguised as concern.
Not the defective Omega who couldn't make a bond work. Not the failure who got returned like a faulty appliance that didn't meet expectations. Not the cautionary tale mothers probably tell their daughters: "That's what happens when you think you can choose your own path."
But then Reverie—beautiful, chaotic, perfectly-timed Reverie who has apparently appointed herself my guardian angel without asking permission—doesn't miss a single beat.
She pops her head over the counter with all the subtlety of a parade float, voice cranked up to full volume: "Hey, Hazel! Quick question! Do you have recipe cards for the Cinnamon Soul Cookies? I really want to post about them but I need the official version so people know this is THE place, the authentic experience, not some copycat situation from that sad bakery two towns over that thinks nutmeg is a personality trait!"
She doesn't pause, doesn't give anyone room to interrupt her enthusiastic rambling.
"And also, people are always asking about variations—gluten-free options, or those little Halloween ghost ones you mentioned for the Book & Bake event, or maybe dairy-free because apparently some people have functioning digestive systems that object to butter which seems tragic but I respect it. Should I just write it down manually or do you have pre-printed cards I can grab? Because I want to make sure I'm representing your brand accurately and giving proper credit and also maybe taking photos for Instagram if that's cool? This is important! Very important! Extremely important, actually!"
She's relentless, steering all attention away from me and my frozen hands and the word still echoing in my head, redirecting the entire room's focus toward the cookies, the display, the upcoming events—literally any topic that isn't my personal history served up for public consumption and judgment.
The two women glance over, surprise flickering across their faces like they weren't expecting witnesses to their casual cruelty, like they forgot that words have impact and people can hear them. At least one has the decency to blush, a flush creeping up her neck that suggests some functioning sense of shame. The other suddenly develops a fascinating, all-consuming interest in the candle display, examining each votive with the intensity of someone shopping for her grandmother and definitely not tryingto pretend she wasn't just participating in gossip that could devastate someone.
I force myself to move—it takes actual physical effort, like I'm pushing through water or moving in a dream where everything is heavy and slow. Finish wrapping the croissant. Bag the scone with hands that are trying very hard not to shake and mostly failing. Ring them up with fingers that have to try three times to hit the right buttons on the register.
I even manage eye contact, which feels like climbing a mountain while carrying all my trauma on my back. "Thanks for coming in," I say, and it comes out softer than I intended, quieter, but it's something. More than I thought I could manage thirty seconds ago when I wanted to melt into the floor. "Let me know if you want to preorder anything for the Harvest & Haunt Festival. I'm doing sampler boxes—little bit of everything so you can try multiple items without committing to full-size portions or risking your opinion on any single thing."
They take their pastries with the speed of people who've just realized they've been caught doing something they shouldn't, still giggling under their breath but not quite so bold this time. Not with Reverie standing there like a pumpkin-haired guardian angel who's seen some shit and isn't afraid to make a scene about it.
The door swings closed with a cheerful jingle that feels completely at odds with the tension still vibrating through my chest like a plucked string.
Reverie's grinning when I finally look up at her, all teeth and defiance and barely contained rage on my behalf.
"You okay?" she asks, dropping her voice this time. Real concern instead of performance, genuine care in her eyes. "Sorry, sometimes I get... loud. Really loud. Possibly too loud. But people in this town? They only remember what you tell them twice, loudly, with enthusiasm. Next time someone brings youup, it'll be 'oh yeah, that cookie person,' not whatever garbage they were trying to spin just now."
My throat feels raw, scraped, like I've been crying even though I haven't shed a single tear because I learned a long time ago that crying makes people uncomfortable and gives them ammunition.
But it's raw in a strange, almost good way. Like lancing a wound. Like letting poison out.
"Thanks," I manage, my voice rough. "I, uh. I really hate that word."
"The D-one?" Reverie's expression darkens just slightly, fury flickering beneath her usual enthusiasm. "Yeah. Screw 'defective.' Screw that word and everyone who uses it and the entire concept behind it. If anything, you're overpowered. Possibly too powerful for this town. Have you tasted your own scones? They're legitimately threatening to the structural integrity of my entire worldview. I may never recover. I might need therapy just to process how good they are."
I actually laugh. I don't mean to—it just bubbles up unexpected and sharp and surprisingly genuine, forcing its way past the tightness in my chest.
