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I have to bake my little heart out.
The oven chimes in the background. It’s ready for me. Rock and roll pulses on the Sonos speaker. Aerosmith, the Rolling Stones. None of Aiden’s aggressive metal music.
“You ready?” I ask the big, beautiful kitchen. “Because I am.”
I slide the scissors to open the bag of flour. Dip in a measuring cup. Then baking soda. Cocoa powder.
The movements are stiff one-handed, but they’re no longer buried. They are not just motions; they are my heart. And I know them. The recipes spill out, some old, some new, as I flawlessly bake the day away.
Slow but steady. That is the name of my game.
I press a finger down, testing a tray of peppermint bark. The kitchen fills with the sounds of simmering caramel sauce, thesoft sighs of cinnamon roll dough. I take a bite of strawberry jam that has me groaning, has the squish in my belly kicking with delight.
I hold my belly and laugh.
Joy.
That’s the word for it.
I feel joy.
Fucking finally.
My breath catches and releases. The color in the bowl is bright yellow.
A rope-the-moon color.
An always and forever hope.
As I bake, I picture the Corner Store. What it is and what it could be.
Yes, I lost my bakery, but I didn’t lose myself. That girl, that woman, that baker, is still in there. She’s deep in my blood, edging out fear, the pain in my arm.
I’m pulling a tray of goodies from the oven when I catch sight of Davis coming through the doorway in fullMONSARgear. He’s been out on a call to assist in the search for hikers who went missing near Elk Lake. His navy T-shirt is stretched tight over his biceps, and I want to ingrain the heart-thumping sight to memory.
His heavy gaze scans the kitchen, then looks at me, not bothering to hide his surprise. “You’re baking.”
His rough voice has my stomach doing a full-on swoop.
“I am.” I set the cupcakes on the counter. “I need practice before I make Ruby her cake. I’m rusty.”
He rubs his palm across his jaw. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. I want her to have the best cake she’s ever had.”
“It’s just a cake.”
I wag my finger at him. “No, Davis Montgomery. It’s never just a cake. It is a bucket list cake.” I give him a knowing look. “It’s a cake for the girl your brother loves.”
His eyes soften. “You want me to leave? Give you some space?”
I smile. This is Davis. Always here, asking me what I need. A safe, constant presence I can count on.
My brow creases in thought and I tip my head. “Will you help me?”
“What’re we making?”
“Cupcakes. We can frost together. I need another hand.”
