Page 126 of Go Back to December

How could I have been so stupid?

Badger, a self-made business boss, would never vote to keep the café alive.

And I was a complete fool to think that whatever fragile tie Baz and I have forged in the last few days can weather this.

“Let me explain,” he rasps.

“Why?” I ask. “The deal is done. It’s over.”

“Sebastian,” Sofia repeats.

“In a minute, Mamá,” Baz snaps. His stare holds mine. “This is not over.”

“For me, it is.”

Baz doesn’t blow, and he doesn’t break, and I’ve never wanted that cold, empty mask to crack as much as I do now, to prove to me that he’s as rattled by his actions as I am. The speed at which he reverts to the detached Bad Bastard is a painful reminder that this will always be his default.

I turn to the Johnsons and work to steady my breath. “You’ve been so kind to me. Thank you for letting me be a part of all of this, for a short while. But Baz and I—” My voice catches. “We gave you the wrong idea. About us. I’m not entirely sure why.” I laugh shakily and finally find Baz’s seething glare. “You’ll have to ask him.”

“Melody.” Sofia strains for something else to say.

“I’m so sorry for misleading you. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

With one last look at his clenched jaw, I add, “I hope you’ll forgive Baz too.”

Sybil winds her arm through mine as we fall out, marching across the room with our heads held high.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Hanging up Sybil’s luxurious coat in Manny’s vacant hall closet is the emptiest thing I’ve ever done.

After our quiet drive back to the city, she insisted I keep the coat. And while she’s promised to do whatever she can to advocate for the café with the senior partners, the best we can hope for is that they’ll grant us the six weeks they previously committed to funding.

Hope is a harsh thing right now. I’m too hollow for it. I’m scalded by my previous optimism, which wasn’t cautious enough.

There is a litany of notifications on my phone. I haven’t heard from Craig, despite trying to get in touch with him for the last two days and leaving him a somewhat maudlin voicemail.

It takes two hours—and a glass and a half of economy chardonnay—to work up the strength to call Amal.

“You sound like shit,” she says after we exchange Happy New Year’s.

The script I prepared evaporates, and the sobbing takes over. Before I can stop myself, I’m blubbering on about Baz and sausage rolls and igloo kisses.

Amal interjects with soothing, encouraging noises, until I sniff, “I’m so sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing to me?”

“Because I should have done more! I shouldn’t have been so naïve.”

“Mel, it’s not naïve to have hope. If we didn’t have hope, we’d have nothing.”

Tears threaten again. “I’m going to fix this.”

“I don’t think that’s how we should look at it,” Amal says. “The question we have to answer is what do we do next?”

It’s such a relief to be talking with her, like she’s my partner in this. We game out the worst-case scenario, and then some better ones, and compose a note together to the staff, which we agree we’ll both sign and send out tonight to everyone.

“Amal, I couldn’t do this without you.”