Page 102 of Ringer's Freedom

“You wanted to? Or Ringer asked you to?”

She lets out a laugh, and I know the answer immediately. “Does it matter?”

I shrug and smile with her. “I guess not. He probably thinks that, if you helped me once, you can definitely do it again.”

“Men.” We say in unison and laugh.

“Talk to me, Lilah.”

I clear my throat. There is so much to unpack with just the small command oftalk to me.

What do I say? Do I say I feel like a failure? Do I say I’m fucking heartbroken that my entire dream went up in flames? Do I say I’m fucking terrified that I am in love with Ringer, and I’m pretty sure he is in love with me too? Do I cry about the fact that, even though Ringer says he isn’t, I’m almost positive that Ghost hates me and blames me for Ringer going to prison? Do I talk about the fact that I can seehow much his brother’s disapproval guts Ringer?

What do I say? Where do I begin?

I’m head over heels in love with Ringer, but yet part of me feels like his life would be so much simpler if we never would have gotten married.

But selfishly, I refuse to give him up.

“The bakery made me feel closer to her,” is what I settle with, and once the words are out, I realize that is the root of all of my turmoil. Tears burn my eyelids.

Being in the kitchen of the bakery and baking everything that she ever taught me how to make made me feel like she was always with me. She was in the kitchen with me, whipping up butter and frosting cookies while she told me to be careful pulling the next batch out so that I didn’t burn myself.

Pebbles’s hand lands on my leg, and she squeezes. “It’s perfectly normal to feel close to her there. That’s what you guys did the most. But Lilah, you can bake anywhere. Go bake a batch of brownies in your kitchen, and I bet you’ll feel her. It’s not the bakery, it’s baking in general.”

I worry my lip between my teeth, not wanting the tears threatening to fall let loose. Once they start, they usually don’t stop. I’m not used to being such a crier.

“Your nana passed away way before you opened the bakery. She was never even in the building. Don’t let the bakery burning kill the memory of her in your head. It’s baking that brings you closer to her. Whenever I’m missing my dad and want to be close to him, all I have to do is go to the clubhouse. I know it’s a little different, but the majority of my memories of my dad are in the clubhouse. What are your memories of your nana? In your bakery? Or in the kitchen of your dad’s house, baking?”

“In my dad’s kitchen,” I admit in a whisper.

“There you go.”

It kills me to admit it, but she’s right. It almost feels like everything’s been a lie. I’ve told myself since I can remember that the bakery wasourdream. But that isn’t even remotely true. Since the fire, homemade movie tapes have circled through my mind with different memories from my childhood. My nana’s dream wasn’t baking, it was photography. But because baking is what we did together, somehow I convinced myself that baking had been her true passion.

I push off my bed and unlock the tall chest on the other side of the room. I have all of Nana’s cameras, a few large photo boxes, and scrapbooks stuffed inside.

I grab the box I know contains most of the photos of the club in it and bring it over to my bed. I pat the spot next to me and plop down on my stomach with the box in front of us.

Pebbles can’t lay on her stomach because it is the size of a beach ball, so instead, she sits on her hip right next to me.

Pulling off the top of the box, I let out a belly laugh at the first picture on top.

Reaper, Tank, Horse, Bones, and Triton all have their arms around each other. What has Pebbles and us both in a fit of giggles is the costumes they are all sporting. The Halloween party is in full swing in the background of the photo, and all of the guys are dressed in their best costumes.

Myvery youngdad is in a Hulk Hogan yellow onesie with an absolutely atrocious blonde mustache andno tights.Pebbles dad is wearing what I can only describe as a white cotton diaper. He’s flicking off the camera with a pacifier hanging off his pinky finger.

“Jesus,” Pebbles groans when her laughter dies down. “How old were we? I don’t remember this, and my dad looks so young.”

I flip the picture over and see the year. Doing the math, I realize I was only two when this was taken.

The next picture answers our question, and I burst out laughing at the irony. Renee is dressed up as Cruella de Vil, while I’m dressed like a small Dalmatian. So she’s always been the devil. Nice to know.

The sad part about the fact that my nana was the resident photographer? She’s hardly in any of the images we flip through.

My heart breaks even further when I reach into the box and pull out an older photo of my nana and grandpop. Reaper as a teenager stands smiling in front of them, leaning against what must have been his first motorcycle. Nana looks like a stunner in her tank top and tight jeans, while my dad and Pop both have on leather vests. Dad’s is plain black, but Pop’s is littered in various patches.

“Oh my gosh! I forgot about this!” Pebbles cries excitedly, shoving the picture in my face.

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