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Her wide eyes brought me up short and I pulled my hands back with what I hoped was an easy smile. “There’s a trophy shop in town, if you’re serious.”
Shock and then amusement colored her cheeks a pretty shade of pink. “I think I’ll hold off until the true test is complete.”
“True test?”
“How well it tastes as a cold breakfast before work.” Hope soared in my chest, but it was dashed a moment later when her shoulders fell. “Work—do I have a job?”
It was heartbreaking, the confusion on her face when she asked questions about her own life. “You do. You run a bakery called Sweet Treats. In fact,” I began and stood to grab some things from the fridge, “here are some of the treats you’ve been working on this week.”
Her gaze landed on the plate, bouncing from the cheesecake bites to the brownies to the healthy muffins, none of them causing even a flash of recognition.
“I’m a baker.”
The words came out almost disgusted, as if she had bigger dreams for herself.
But I grinned because Megan would have kicked her own ass for saying that. “You’re not just a baker, Megan. You’ve won awards all over the state and even the west coast. Some of your creations have appeared in magazines and one time, Rachael Ray gushed about your orange, coffee, and chocolate fudge pops.”
Her expression remained blank and I laughed. “What?”
“She is only the biggest name in food in all of the United States.” To prove my point, because for some reason it really mattered to me that she knew how great she was, how fantastic she was at her job, I grabbed my phone and showed her.
“Wow. Impressive.”
“It is,” I insisted. “And it’s not just that. My grandmother left Sweet Treats for you to run and it’s doing well, better than even you thought possible. You started selling some items online and your specialty items sell out each and every day. You’re a talented pastry chef and businesswoman, Megan.”
“Wow, you make me sound pretty great.” She smiled but, in a fit of nervousness, nibbled her bottom lip. “Tell me more about you, Casey. Why did you choose neurosurgery?”
The question brought a bittersweet smile to my face. “You, actually.”
Her eyes widened and one hand flew to her head. “Me. Why?”
I laughed. “Don’t worry, other than your recent encounter, your brain is fine. I think.”
“Funny,” she said in that sarcastic tone that was pure Megan.
“Thanks, I think so, too.” She rolled her eyes and I let a little glimmer of hope take up residence in my chest. “You used to always say to me, ‘It’s not rocket surgery,’ whenever I got too down on myself or thought something was beyond my capabilities. ‘It’s not rocket surgery, Case.’ That’s what you would say to me.”
She laughed. “And you decided to take up rocket surgery?”
I shrugged. “Nah, I’m much better at the brain than I am with mechanical things. When it came time to pick a specialty, my mentor recommended neurosurgery and you rolled your eyes and said, ‘Who needs rocket surgery when you could do brain surgery all day?’” I laughed at the memory because it was such a Megan thing to say, so sassy yet supportive.
“I sound like a bit of a smart ass.”
“Just a bit?”
“Wow, I married a comedian. Who knew?” She reached for another slice of pizza and took a small bite. “Why didn’t I move with you for medical school?”
“Because you’re a small-town girl at heart. You believe you can have a big life even in a small town, and then you set out to do it. You succeeded.”
She nodded as she absorbed the words, but I knew Megs and she was doubtful—it was written all over her face. “But wouldn’t I want to work at a big bakery or create amazing pastries for celebrities or rich people? Wouldn’t that be my big life?”
Was that what Megan wanted, to move to the city and have a bigger life than she had in Jackson’s Ridge? “That’s not the impression I got from you, no.”
“Okay.” That one word came out quickly and Megan nodded, trying to square what she thought now with the reality of her choices. “All right. Am I going to work tomorrow?”
“No one expects you to, not yet, anyway. Do you want to go into the bakery tomorrow?”
“I don’t know, are you going in tomorrow?”
“For an hour or two because I need to check in on some post-op patients, otherwise I’m all yours.” I had to come up with something we could do that might jog her memory, spark a flicker of remembrance about us. About our life.
“What will I do?”
I shrugged. “Bake some things. Hang out with your friends. Whatever you want.”
“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be asking you.” The snark was unusual, but well-deserved given the circumstances. “Sorry. Maybe I’m just tired. I think I’ll go to bed.”
