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Once the press leaves, cameras and lights and shouting reporters giving me room to breathe, my dad places a small, swift kiss on the top of my head, says his goodbyes, and leaves right behind them.
Such is life when you’re the daughter of Shane Turner.
There’s always a baby to kiss, always a bill to sign, always a hand to shake.
But as always, one of my favorite people on the planet stays behind, his thick dark hair combed back respectably, a suit jacket I know he’s dying to toss into a dumpster somewhere, perfect pressed, a white button-down underneath, and a light- and dark-pink striped tie finishing the outfit.
A tie I know he chose simply because it goes with the color scheme of my new bakery.
For context, my dad wore a bright-red tie.
But Sam? I can always count on him to cheer me on and support me.
He’s leaning on the counter I stand behind, looking at the four small round tables I have inside the bakery filled with customers munching and chatting. There are more customers outside, mingling and eating baked goods, some at the small wrought-iron tables and chairs I put out front and others sitting on the boardwalk benches.
It feels amazing to see this all, knowing I built it and people areenjoyingwhat I made.
“Proud of you,” Sam says, his voice soft. When I move my eyes back to him, he’s staring at me, and his eyes are as soft as his voice. “Your mom would be even prouder.”
And fuck, here come the waterworks.
In another universe, Sam would be my brother.
Instead, he’s the son of one of my mother’s childhood best friends. We grew up together; photos of him, me, and my sister Lilah sitting around in diapers litter my family room and his parents’ house. Over the years, he found his own foothold in politics, most recently being elected as a councilman, but he’ll always just be an annoying boy who chased me around with a worm when I was ten.
And apparently, he has a death wish.
“You make me cry in the middle of my bakery on opening day, I’m going to get you back,” I say with a threat, but it’s hollow with the words scratching through a closing throat.
He smiles his wide politician’s smile.
People think that’s a learned smile, that it’s something you practice and perfect, but I think some people are just born with it. The smile that says, “Trust me. Vote for me. I’ll lead the way and better your life,” with just the shine of teeth.
But then the smile falters. This, unfortunately, I’ve seen before, too.
This is the look the public doesn’t get to see, but I have many times.
Too many fucking times.
My gut drops.
“What?” Sam looks around, checking to see if anyone is listening.
In a small town like this, whispered conversations can turn into the front page of theOcean View Pressthe next day. When he determines we’re in the clear, he leans in a bit closer, lowering his voice.
“Have you . . . heard anything?”
I don’t like where this is going.
So I don’t answer the question I know he’s asking.
“I hear things all the time.” He rolls his eyes.
“Don’t be a smart ass.”
“I can’t help it,” I say. I don’t know why I’m playing this game—I guess because I know somethingnot greatis coming. Something I probably don’t want to hear, especially on a day like today.
If today is sunshine and rainbows, Sam is about to bring on the rain cloud. And the look on his face tells me he doesn’t want to be the one to do it, no matter if he has to.
