***
The next morning at the bakery, Colby arrives and asks: "Where's management?"
I answer quietly that Jillian has already caught the school bus but don’t elaborate further.
I keep my voice painfully polite and assume that he will get the picture.
And he does.
“Can you hand me the tray?”
“Thank you.”
“Could you refill napkins?”
No teasing. No warmth. Nous.
By ten o’clock the tension becomes unbearable. Mrs. Bellamy notices, because nothing escapes a seventy-year-old woman fueled entirely by caffeine and gossip.
She corners me near the espresso machine while Colby helps a customer near the front windows.
“What did you do?” she whispers.
“I didn’t do anything.”
“That boy looks emotionally confused.”
“I’m sure he’ll survive.”
Mrs. Bellamy gasps softly. “Oh, this is serious.”
I pretend not to hear her, mostly because if I start talking, I might cry directly into the scone display.
Across the bakery, Colby glances toward me again. The look in his eyes twists something painful in my chest.
Confused.
Frustrated.
Worried.
Good. Maybe confusion will help him detach faster. Maybe if I create enough distance now, Jillie won’t feel it so hard later.
The thought almost convinces me.
Almost.
That is, only until lunch rush ends and I catch Colby watching me from the prep counter. He waits until Mrs. Bellamy disappears into storage before speaking quietly.
“Did I do something wrong?”
Simple question. Gentle question. Dangerous question.
Because the truthful answer is: Yes.
You showed up.
You stayed.
