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“Good! You’re an asshole!” she shouts down the hall. Then she looks at me. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s up his ass. Honestly, he has family pressure that’s getting to him. Maybe that’s what’s going on?” She looks over her shoulder, and I see it now—in her face, there’s concern.
She’s never seen him act like that.
Hattie takes a deep breath, shakes her head, and turns back to me. When she meets my eyes, that happy smile is pasted on her face once again. “Don’t worry about him. He’ll get over himself. Next door has been empty for a while, he’s not used to having to be personable.”
I smile, feeling both rigid and fragile, and then I nod.
“Yeah, I’m sure we all just need to adjust. Anyway, I just wanted to, uh, introduce myself. And say hi. I should . . . you know. Get back to my place.”
“For sure!” she says, hoping down from the desk. “Thank you so much for the treats! Let me know if you need anything or if Ben’s a dick again. I’ll kick his ass.”
And then the strange woman pulls me in for a tight hug before l leave and head back to my bakery, still confused.
* * *
Making the few steps back to my bakery, I curse when I realize that once again, the lock on the front door didn’t latch. Knowing that Brad, the landlord, probably won’t give a shit, I add “google how to fix a lock” to my impossibly long to-do list.
Before I flip the “Open” sign, I run to the back, use the bathroom, and throw a couple of trays of dough into the ovens before starting a coffee for myself.
Looking back, the next minutes go in slow motion, like one of those horror movies where you know that someone's life is about to be turned upside down.
Because as I walk up to the front door, I see a small white square on the “Open” side of the sign that’s still facing inward.
One of my napkins, the swirling pink logo in the corner.
It’s stuck to the sign with one of the round logo stickers I use to seal to-go bags and boxes, thick black writing covering the expanse of the white.
And with the words, I’m transported back one year.
Words that read:Call me. - Johnny.
Long, torturous minutes pass before I move to take action. Slipping my phone from my apron pocket, my hands shake as I hold it in front of me, trying and failing to open the camera app.
I take a deep, centering breath, and on the third try, my finger lands on the right icon, opening the camera while I snap a picture. Then shaking hands reach forward, grabbing the napkin and ripping it off before I stuff it into my apron pocket. As I do, a couple with a small child approaches the front door. The mother’s eyebrows come together in confusion before she mouths, “Are you open?”
I want to say, “No. I’m having a giant crisis of faith and need to demand my father dosomething,”but I can’t. It’s only my second day open, and if I want this business to succeed in any context beyond being the mayor’s daughter, I need to put in the work—for myself.
So instead, I nod, putting on my customer service slash politician's daughter smile, and welcome in my customers, flipping the sign to open as I do.
And as I walk to the counter, the little girl chattering about sprinkles and frosting, I type out a quick text to my father, attaching the image to the note.
Me: Fix this.
And though I go on with my day, shaken to the core but burying it in sugar and smiles, I never stop looking at the door, terrified of who will come in.
And I never stop looking at my phone, waiting for the reply that never comes.
Eight
-Lola-
One year ago,I cut my father off.
Cut off isn’t necessarily the right word, really.
One year ago, the trust my mother left me ran dry, and by default, my father was cut off.
It was an hour after Johnny called me that first time, an hour after Johnny told me that my dad had gotten in too deep. He’d made a bet he couldn’t pay. And when the Carluccios required payment, my dear father told them to ask me.
