“Mean to waitresses? Rude to dogs? Uses the word ‘females’ non-ironically?”
Despite everything, I snort. “No. Absolutely not.”
“Then maybe he’s not the danger here,” she says. “Maybe Dad is.”
My hands start to shake. I press my palms flat on the counter, breathing through it.In. Out.The smell of butter and sugar wraps around me, weirdly anchoring.
“What if he comes here?” I whisper. “What if he finds out? What if he decides to?—”
“He won’t,” Charlotte cuts in firmly. “Not right now, at least. He’s convinced you’d never come back to Buckhorn. You spent years telling him you hated this place, remember?”
Because he hated it.
Because he called it small and backwards and beneath us.
Because little by little, I started repeating his words like they were mine.
“He’ll find out eventually,” I murmur.
“And when he does?” Charlotte lifts her chin. “Let him be mad. Let him shout. Let him stomp around his glass office and complain into his Bluetooth. You don’t belong to him anymore, Faith. He doesn’t get to decide your whole life because he paid for your prom dress and your car insurance.”
The knot in my chest tightens, hot and aching. “He can still hurt people,” I say quietly. “He can make things difficult for you. For Mom. For… anyone around me.”
“I’m not scared of him,” Charlotte says.
Mom raises a brow. “You’re a little scared of him.”
“Okay, I’m medium scared,” Charlotte amends. “But I’m more scared of you going back to that life because he yells louder than everyone else. He’s already messing with my school, and yeah, that sucks. But I came here because you matter more than his temper tantrum.”
My eyes sting.
“Faith,” Mom says, stepping closer and sliding an arm around my shoulders, flour and all, “you’ve already done the hardest thing. You left. You chose yourself. Everything after that? That’s just… building something new.”
“Messy building,” Charlotte adds. “Like Ikea, but emotional.”
I let out a wet, shaky laugh.
Mom turns to the oven. “The first batch is almost ready, sweetheart. You want to frost them after they cool?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” Charlotte says. “Because I’m starving, and emotional support sugar sounds perfect.”
“Back off the emotional support sugar,” I warn. “I’m in a committed relationship with these cookies now.”
She grins. “I fully support this relationship. Much better than the last one. Cookies don’t gaslight you.”
“Or wear cufflinks,” I add.
We both shudder.
The oven timer dings. Mom pulls out the tray, and the warm, sweet smell of baked sugar blooms through the kitchen. Little hearts and stars and snowflakes line the pan, half of them a little lopsided from my overzealous rolling.
We move around each other in a familiar dance. Mom finding cooling racks, Charlotte setting up the powdered sugar, me mixing frosting because my life depends on the exact ratio of vanilla extract.
The house feels smaller now. Fuller.
Dad is still out there, angry and humiliated, looking for me.
