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Christ.
“Go away,” I shout, continuing to fill up liners with blueberry muffin batter. It has a hint of lemon zest, and the entire bakery smells like citrus because of it.
He’s silent for a moment, and I think maybe, just maybe, he’s gone.
That I succeeded in getting him away.
Then the handle twists.
The fucking handle twists.
Jesus Christ, did I forget to lock that stupid door?!
I’m an idiot.
“You didn’t lock your dooragain?” he asks, staring at me in the open door, fury in his eyes.
“I didn’t expect my psycho neighbor to come barging inagain.” Never mind the fact that he’s done thismultiple timesalready.
“It’s hardly barging in if all I‘m doing istwisting the knoband walking in. You don’t even have a sign on the back saying not to come in.” I’ve thought of this, especially after seeing a similar sign on his own door.
“Most people know not to come in a business door if it’s closed. And you’re the only one who has access to that door.”
“The front door—is it locked?” he asks, and I don’t answer because the truth is, I haven’t gotten around to fixing that lock.
Unfortunately, I don’t have to answer.
“It’s not, is it?” I sigh, turning to the remote that controls my music and turning it down a hair, just enough to hear myself think while having a conversation with this painful fucking man.
“It doesn’t always catch. I told Brad, but from what you tell me, he’s not going to fix it. I’ve watched some videos, and I’m going to do it myself when I have a few hours.” He looks . . . disappointed in me.
“There’s a lot of scum in this world, babe. I know you live in your cushy tower with your Daddy keeping you safe, but learn this now—it’ll save you lots of stress. People in the real world? They’re shit.”
If he only knew the truth. My truth.
“I’m not some kind of protected princess.”
“Sure you aren’t. You just had Daddy help you buy into a lease, buy your fancy equipment, help stock you, and then make sure it’s a success with some sob story in the news about the town’s beloved mayor’s beloved oldest daughter opening a business in her mom’s name.”
It’s almost funny that this is why he hates me with such a passion.
He thinks I’m privileged, that I haven’t earned any of this.
I could be shocked, but truly, I’m not. I’ve faced this my entire life. Any success, any grain of accomplishment was always downplayed by those around me as if it weren’t me who did it.
At least I understand in a strange way—I’m sure Ben came from nothing, built up his business from scratch, and worked extremely hard to have the success he has. And while I did the same, if not as obviously, it’s a valid emotion.
That frustration when you have to work to the bone for something that seems to have been given to others—look at my frustration with Lilah some days.
“My dad didn’t help with my bakery, Ben,” I say, my voice softer than I expect. Like I’m comforting him or explaining something to a hurt dog. “I’m sure it seems—” I start, but then stop when I see his eyes locked to my wrist, the wrist of the hand I just lifted in what was supposed to be a kind, friendly gesture.
I look down at said wrist and see it.
A deep purple bruise on fair skin, and I instantly curse my father’s Irish side of the family with their red hair and fair fucking skin and ability to bruise if you just looksidewaysat them.
He steps closer.
I step back.
