Page 116 of A Taste of Vanilla

“Yeah.”

“How much?”

“I’ll get the part at cost.”

I stiffen.

His eyes narrow slightly. “What?”

“I can pay for it.”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t.”

“You were about to offer.”

“I was about to get the part at cost.”

“With what intention?”

“To help.”

I study him.

My face heats. He doesn’t deserve being snapped at. “I’m sorry,” I say.

He pauses. “For what?”

“For assuming.”

He nods.

I’m about to say something else when Marley comes in, her phone in hand. Her face is pale.

My stomach tightens. “What now?”

She looks at me. “I think you need to see this.”

I don’t want to.

Every cell in my body rejects the idea of one more thing.

But I take her phone anyway.

It’s an article.

A local food column.

Barrett Whitaker’s column.

My chest goes cold before I read the headline.

BALTIMORE’S SWEETEST DARLING MAY BE LOSING ITS BALANCE

No.

I read anyway.

The column is not technically cruel, which somehow makes it ten times worse.