Page 29 of A Taste of Vanilla

“Maybe.”

“Did you call him?”

I look out my window. A silver sedan rushes by me, and then a large pickup with truck nuts and adon’t tread on mesticker and that American flag Punisher symbol that drives me crazy because they very clearly don’t actually getThe Punisherat all and?—

I stop myself.

“No,” I say finally.

She does not ask why, which is one of the many reasons I love her. She knows not all parents are emergency contacts, even when they technically love you, and you love them. My dad loves me. I know he does. Eddy Smith is a big-hearted, sunburned, flour-covered man who sends me photos of weird bread experiments and once mailed me a birthday card six weeks late because he’d “put it somewhere safe,” which in his case meant inside a cookbook he did not open until August.

But calling him meant saying the words out loud to a manwho had left a family behind, even if he had done it with regret and Christmas presents and Florida sunshine.

Calling him meant being his sad daughter, and I couldn’t do that yet.

Not when I’m already a sad ex-fiancée, a sad bakery owner, and a sad woman near Wawa. There are only so many tragic identities one person can wear before the outfit gets far too busy and they need to take something off.

“I couldn’t go home,” I say.

“Then don’t.” She says it with a finality that makes me close my eyes and lean my head against the headrest. “You don’t have to decide anything today. Nothing at all,” she continues. “Not where you’re sleeping or how to get your things. Oliver and I can deal with that.”

“I have wedding appointments.”

“We’ll cancel them.”

“I made deposits.”

“We’ll deal with them.”

“My dress is at home.”

“We’ll burn it.”

I sigh. “It was really expensive, Marley.”

“Fine. Then we’ll sell it, and then burn something else.”

“Grant?” I know that’s who she’s picturing.

There’s a pause and a muffled voice. “Oliver said we can’t discuss felonies over the phone.”

“He’s so controlling,” I whisper.

“He has a strong moral compass,” she adds. “He keeps it in the same drawer as his emergency bail cash.”

“The cash is for plumbing disasters,” he groans in the background.

I picture them in Oliver’s truck. Marley is in the passenger seat, most likely turned halfway sideways with one sneaker on the dash until Oliver snaps at her to get it down or she’ll kill herself in an accident. Oliver is driving with both hands on the wheel, his jaw tight, wearing the expression of a man on his wayto fix a situation he’ll do everything he can to pretend he doesn’t care deeply about.

It breaks something in me. Something good. Something kinder.

“I don’t want you guys to see me like this,” I admit.

“Like what?”

“Stupid, I think.”

“Oh, babe. We’ve all seen each other in these moments.”