Page 215 of A Taste of Vanilla

He stares from the doorway. “This is unpleasant.”

Halston nearly drops her mug and I look up from the prep list.

He stands between Bitter Bloom and Saints & Sinners, dressed in black, his arms crossed, his expression flat. The bakery isn’t open yet; Marley isn’t even here. It’s just Halston, me, and Oliver.

Halston puts one hand over her chest. “Sometimes I think you’re a professional lurker.”

“I’m not. I just own the adjacent building and regret my choices.”

“You scared me.”

“You were giving him those weird little googly eyes over coffee.”

Her face flushes immediately.

I look back at my list and write “increase coconut syrup batch” to keep my hands occupied.

Halston clears her throat and reaches for the prep list. “What are we doing first?”

I hand it to her, and her fingers brush mine.

Oliver groans.

Halston turns on him. “What is your problem, Oliver?”

“I’m suffering.”

“You chose to be here.”

He rolls his eyes before his mouth curves just slightly.

I’ve spent years thinking chosen family was a luxury peopletalked about when they had enough distance from obligation to make it sentimental. My family wasn’t chosen. It was blood, absence, debt, and a sister who needed more than I knew how to give through no fault of her own.

Halston chose this. Oliver and Marley. Dev and Lisa.

Mrs. Alvarez. This neighborhood and the three-legged squirrel on the fire escape who scared the shit out of me this morning. Yet I was secretly happy to see he was still alive.

She built her life from people who came when she called, even if they complained a little while doing it.

By eight, the front door is open and the first rush builds around the smell of butter and espresso. Halston works the register today, then shifts to drinks because people keep asking for Coconut Blooms and she doesn’t trust Dev to add enough foam.

Lisa handles pastries. Marley arrives late with sunglasses over her eyes, a laptop, and the expression of someone who has already fought traffic, multiple emails, and possibly God.

She sees Oliver eating half a Vanilla Proof behind the counter. “I thought you didn’t like joy.”

He swallows. “Quality assurance.”

“That’s Warren’s lie.”

I don’t look up from portioning scones. They’re better now. Consistently even, although she still calls them rustic.

At ten fifteen, a woman comes in and asks whether Barrett Whitaker has “walked back” his review yet.

Halston’s shoulders tense. Marley’s head lifts from her laptop and Dev freezes at the espresso machine.

Halston smiles, and while it’s wide, it’s not real. “The Vanilla Proof is fresh today,” she says. “It has been doing an excellent job of speaking for itself.”

The woman laughs awkwardly and orders one.