Al lifts both hands. “Not mean. She laughs when she’s happy, nervous, mad, breathing, probably asleep. If she laughs, endure it.”
“I do not want to make a fool of myself.”
“Too late. Love handles that part upfront.”
The word again.
This time I do not tell him not to say it.
That is how I know I am lost.
The next day, Sweet Tooth smells like fresh bread and fear disguised as determination.
Not fear of gangs today. Fear from me.
The bakery is busy by midmorning, bright with oven heat and crowded voices. Rain streaks the temporary synthglass panel in uneven lines. The repaired display case hums with only occasional grinding, which Darlene calls “the sound of fiscal survival.” Evie moves behind the counter in a blue dress under her apron, hair twisted up with two pencils, cheeks flushed from the kitchen heat. She laughs at something Mr. Eddison says, and the sound knocks every prepared sentence from my mind.
I lift a crate of citrus and carry it into storage.
Then I carry it out again because Evie says it belongs near the prep table.
Then I carry flour.
Then I inspect the rear door, which does not need inspection.
Then Darlene corners me in the kitchen with a tray of cooling rolls and no mercy in her face.
“You’re acting weirder than usual.”
“I am working.”
“You opened the same cabinet four times.”
“I was checking inventory.”
“That cabinet has aprons and mouse traps.”
“I was checking textiles and pest control.”
“You are full of crap.”
I look toward the front room. Evie is pouring coffee for Mrs. Pell. Her hand brushes a strand of hair from her cheek, leaving a streak of flour near her temple. My chest aches.
Darlene follows my gaze. “Ah.”
“No.”
“Don’t no me, big man. I was old when your parents were still making bad decisions.”
I stiffen.
Her expression shifts. “Sorry.”
“It is fine.”
“It wasn’t. I overstepped.”
The apology surprises me.
