Page 22 of A Taste of Vanilla

My car is parked two blocks away. I hate paying for the garage Grant wants me to use. Walking to it feels strange. Normal. My boots stick slightly, my cardigan slips from one shoulder, and a delivery cyclist nearly takes out a businessman in front of me and calls him some choice words I wish I could scream.

I almost laugh.

And then I almost throw up.

By the time I reach my car, my hands are shaking.

Silence. Not the real kind.

City silence. Muffled horns. The thump of my own pulse.

I grip the steering wheel. The first sob comes out of nowhere.

Ugly and embarrassing even though no one can hear me.

I slap my hand over my mouth like it could do something. The next one rips out anyway.

My entire body folds around it.

I cry like someone died, which is dramatic but also a little accurate. A version of me died upstairs in that office. The version who believed that being loved meant being chosen once and safely. The version who thought a ring is a promise. The versionwho ignored every single red flag because the parade was pretty and everyone kept clapping.

My phone buzzes in my purse.

Then again.

And again.

I dig it out. A stupid part of me hopes it’s Grant.

It’s not.

MARLEY

How did Operation Croissant Peace Offering go?

OLIVER

Did you give him the pastry or commit arson?

MARLEY

If you committed arson, call Oliver first. He has a truck.

OLIVER

Do not involve me in arson before noon.

Their texts sit there, ordinary and ridiculous. Maybe even a little sweet.

I stare at them until the screen blurs.

I could call them.

Instead, I open my texts with Grant.

My thumb hovers.

There are so many things I want to say.