Page 32 of Morally Black Betrothal
Step four: whining.
I shook my head. “Sel, I can’t. I’m sorry. But I’m sure we can get you on a payment plan or something. I’ll help you find a new job.”
My eyes darted over to Kylie’s sleeping form. The kid was completely unaware that her mother was putting both of their lives in danger.
I wanted to help. I really did. But I’d been sucked into this cycle before. And there was something else on the line too: my own dream.
I didn’t want to be selling bread out of a coffee shop forever. I was only a few thousand off from having the down payment to get myself into an open bakery space around the corner.
“I just need enough to pay him off and get out of here,” Selena was saying. “Then I can take Kylie home.”
My head snapped back up. “Home, home? As in Woodstock?”
Selena nodded. “Well, I can’t stay here with you.”
She almost looked as if she wanted me to argue with her. I didn’t, though. My apartment wasn’t big enough for permanent houseguests.
Even if it were, this wasn’t the plan I was expecting. I’d thought Selena would take the money, pay off our scary former classmate turned loan shark, and then schlep poor Kylie off to whatever next ill-informed adventure she had planned.
Woodstock, though. The farm. A chance at a childhood was the best thing she could possibly give her daughter, even if the farm was a shell of its former self.
And maybe it would be good for Selena too.
Just like that, the bakery floated into the ether along with my dream.
“Look, I can give you half,” I said. “But that’s it.”
I don’t know why I expected gratitude.
Selena’s eyes grew dark and hard as she squinted at me across the table. “You’re kidding, right?”
I frowned. “No. I don’t know why you think I’d have that much cash on hand. I have about half in savings, but that’s all I can offer.”
“What about all of this shit?” She waved her newly painted nails toward the kitchen, which was filled with what even I would describe as an excessive amount of cheese and baking supplies. I had the double oven, industrial sink, and massive fridge, of course. But the other plus of a former caterer’s kitchen were the several industrial metal shelves that made plenty of space for the baking forms, trays, mixers, and countless other items I’d accumulated over the years.
“What about it?” I asked calmly.
She huffed again. “It looks like you’re still living at the dairy.”
“No, it doesn’t.” I took another sip of coffee. “Do you see any churns?”
I actually resented the idea that my kitchen in any way resembled the one back home. Granted, our family’s Vermont farmhouse was warm and cozy and clean when our mother was alive, but it became a cold, dusty shell when left to Dad’s care.
It had taken me years to turn this space into something that felt like a home. The stainless-steel appliances were warmed by exposed brick walls, butcher block counters, and thick green plants that thrived in the humidity of a baker’s home. I was particularly proud of the four-year-old pothos whose vines twisted over not one but two windows.
Was the space small?
Sure.
Was it clean, warm, and welcoming?
I made sure of it.
“I can’t believe you’re still making this shit.” Selena pointed at my half-eaten strata. “You live in an amazing city, and you’d still rather act like a crunchy Vermont chick living on a commune. Why did you even come here at all?”
I didn’t answer that. Because she knew.
Years ago, she’d come to the city with a boyfriend. I’d followed after he threw her out. When your twin is a hot mess, it’s difficult not to feel like you need to be their rescuer.
