Page 55 of A Taste of Vanilla

Marley shows him her phone, and his face goes blank.

He looks at me. “Do you want me to respond?”

“No.”

“Do you want Marley to respond?”

“No.”

“Do you want to respond?”

My thumb hovers over the screen. For a moment I think about typing something.

You made it big when you slept with her.

You don’t get to decide the size of my reaction.

Stay away from me.

Go choke on light ice.

But then he would answer. And suddenly, I’d be back inside his orbit, explaining my pain to the one person who caused it and hoping he’d validate the wound.

I lock my phone and silently shake my head. Oliver nods.

Marley smiles like she wants to cry and commit arson at the same time.

“Good,” Oliver says. I think it’s the closest thing to applause he’s ever given me.

At two, we close.

Marley flips the sign while Oliver ushers the last two customers out with the gentle charm of a man ending a hostage situation.

I turn off the espresso machine, allowing the silence to eat me whole.

My feet hurt, my pelvis aches, and my eyes burn. There’s flour on my cardigan and cold foam on my apron, and I’m ninety percent caffeine and ten percent spite.

But the pastry case is nearly empty, the cash drawer isn’t embarrassing, and most importantly, the bakery is still standing.

After Marley leaves to handle a work call and Lisa goes home with strict instructions for me to “sit down before your uterus files a formal complaint,” Oliver stays to help close.

He wipes tables while I count the drawer.

The bakery is quiet, with sunlight slanting through the front windows and catching flour particles in the air. My sign still promises FULL DRAMA on the door. Barrett Whitaker’s framedreview now lives underneath the counter on a stack of pastry boxes. I refuse to look at it.

But I fail.

“You know, you don’t owe that review anything,” Oliver says. “It may have helped get people in the door, but it’s not why they’ve all come back.”

“I hate that his family is tangled in my business,” I admit.

“Then untangle it.”

“How?”

“One thread at a time.”

“That sounds slow.”