Page 91 of What Remains of Grace

The ceiling above him blurred, then slowly slid into focus. His mouth tasted like old pennies. His stomach wobbled. His head throbbed like someone had wedged a pressure washer behind his eyes.

He groaned, rolling onto his side.

On his nightstand sat a bottle of Pedialyte, two aspirin, and a neatly folded note perched on top.

He blinked at it.

Then blinked again.

Per Hart’s instructions, it read in Travis’s handwriting. Take these before you try to stand. Also, I don’t think she’s made anything clear, and I don’t think it’s done, boss.

Cole stared at the note so long that the words blurred.

“Per Hart’s instructions? How the hell would she know . . .” he muttered. And then it hit him.

Hard.

He jerked upright, head pounding, grabbing his phone with the reflexes of a man who suspected he’d texted someone something he should never have texted.

He opened the thread with Jenna. There it was.

A chunk of autocorrect carnage and misspelled nonsense, broken letters, half-words, a string of gibberish he didn’t remember typing, and somewhere in the middle of it all, the very real, very sloppy, very horrifying phrase:

im in lv w you

He dropped the phone onto his chest, covered his face with both hands, and considered burying himself alive.

* * *

Jenna had kept herself busy. Painfully, deliberately busy by training three new hires.

Finishing the binder, Emmie insisted, was “non-negotiable.” Finalizing the soft-opening menu. Ordering signage.

Putting together the grand-opening flyer Emmie had designed with enough glitter fonts to blind a lesser person.

She’d built her days like scaffolding, task after task after task, and it had worked well enough. The bakery was almost ready. Her staff was almost ready. She was almost ready.

Only one thing on her list stared back at her from the corner of the page, circled twice. Call Dad.

She sat in her car outside the house, staring at the words. Then she hit dial before she could talk herself out of it.

He picked up on the second ring. “Hey, sweetheart.”

The sound of his voice cracked something brittle and old inside her.

They talked about the bakery, Emmie’s classes starting, even the weather. He asked if Biscuit was still stealing socks, to which she told him yes, probably at that very moment.

Then he paused, voice gentling, “Jen . . . I’m glad you’re staying.”

He did what he always did, eased her, rounding off the sharpness she’d been holding all week.

“We’re proud of you,” he continued. “Your mother and I . . . we’re sorry we haven’t called or come by more. We didn’t want to push. You’ve been through so much, and we were afraid hovering might make you feel crowded or make you pull away again. We thought giving you space was kinder. But please don’t think that means we’re not here for you.”

Jenna closed her eyes.

Cole wasn’t the only one tiptoeing. She’d trained everyone around her to.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, fingers pressing to her brow. “I didn’t mean to make you feel that way.”