Page 31 of Morally Black Betrothal
“It’s a sunflower!” Kylie leaned as far over the counter as she could. Then she looked up in concern. “Why do you have to cut the bread, though? Doesn’t it hurt it?”
This was why I loved kids. They were empathetic to literally everything. “Don’t worry, peanut. It can’t feel a thing. And this way, the bread can breathe while it’s cooking. Everyone needs a little space to breathe sometimes.”
We sat there companionably while I prepped the remaining fifteen loaves for baking. Each oven had the capacity for fourboules, and while I was starting to have more requests for my bread from local restaurants, cafes, and other people who lived in the neighborhood, I simply didn’t have the space or time to make more.
One day.
God willing.
Even with Kylie’s chatter, the stress of the last twenty-four hours melted away as I went through the familiar motions, hands coated in flour. Other people ran, did yoga, or meditated when they wanted some peace (or, if you were my sister, smoked in the bathroom). I baked. It had been my refuge since I was just a little older than Kylie, since the days when my mother had taught me how to safely use an oven, how to work with a starter, and all the other secrets of the trade that had, at one point, made her the most successful baker around the Connecticut River Valley. Woodstock was a small town of just a few thousand, but people came from everywhere to experience its quaint charm. Many of them came just to taste my mother’s baking too.
An hour later, my apartment was filled with the scent of baking bread, the next batch of dough was mixed and set to rise for the next three days, Kylie had passed out on the couch from her sugar crash, and Selena had finally finished her bath.
My sister emerged from my bathroom, her face glowing and smooth, the rest of her smelling like a potent cocktail of almonds, cannabis, and, if I wasn’t mistaken, Chardonnay.
The sun was hadn’t even been up for two hours.
I was sipping a second cup of coffee while I finished wiping down my counters. It was clear I wasn’t going to be sleeping much today, so instead I opted for caffeine. Lots of it.
I filled a second mug, one that declared ‘Baking is my superpower,’ and set it on the island. “Here. Drink.”
With Selena, sometimes it was better to command instead of ask.
She slid onto the stool Kylie had abandoned and took the coffee, looking like she wished it were more wine. Her expression, however, changed when she took a sip. “Oh,man, I always forget how good your coffee is. You didn’t make croissants this morning, did you? No one makes them like you do.”
She looked around hopefully, then batted her eyes at me. She must have hoped I’d forgotten the first steps of the Selena Bishop Method of Getting Something.
Step one: abject flattery.
I rolled my eyes. “No, I have an order to fulfill for this afternoon.”
Selena nodded as she adjusted the towel twisted on her head. “No worries. Also, thanks for letting us stay here. You’re a lifesaver, Simmy.”
Step two: faux gratitude, with step three right on its heels: the charm offensive.
My sister flashed me a sparkling smile. Unfortunately for her, I could see that same smile if I looked in a mirror.
“Sure.” I pulled a tray of strata from the fridge and cut myself a piece to warm up. I’d made it yesterday morning from a half a loaf of stale sourdough, shitake mushrooms, kale I was growing on the rooftop, and some homemade goat cheese. It was my version of a frozen dinner for the microwave.
The tray was already half gone, obviously pillaged by Selena when she and Kylie arrived. I hoped Kylie had liked it enough to eat it, at least. Probably not, given the way she’d devoured my ice cream.
I took a seat next to Selena and began eating, ignoring the expectant look on my sister’s face.
“Did you think about it?”
“About what?”
“About the money.” She couldn’tquitekeep the impatience out of her voice. “I—he’s been calling. Ezra. He wants to know when I’m going to have it.”
I sighed and set down my fork. “Fifty thousand dollars is a lot of money. I still can’t believe anyone would lend you that much.”
“Why, because I’m such a loser?”
“I didn’t say that. But we both know you’re not exactly dependable.”
Selena huffed as she stretched her newly moisturized hands out on the counter. It looked like she’d given herself a manicure in there too, based on the fact that her fingernails seemed to be painted with the mother-of-pearl, sheer polish I only let myself use on special occasions.
“We talked about this already,” she said. “So, can you help or not? Iknowyou send Dad a little security money every month, and he says he can do without for a while so you can help me. Come on, Simmy,please…”
