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The smile I give Mr. Nelson is real. “Oh, thanks for asking. I’m good. I spent the day with my sister.”
Relief brightens his face. “Is she visiting from out of town?”
“In a way. She’s still in high school, but my parents live outside the city.” I wonder if they let her go to school today, or if my father is going above and beyond with grounding her. It’s not good to think about it in front of customers. It makes my throat close and tears prick my eyes. “In a way, she was visiting.”
“That counts!” He’s cheery, his fears assuaged, and I wish it could be that way for Lydia. I wish it could be that way for me. “Oh, good. You’ve got cinnamon rolls. I’ll take two.”
Everything’s gone by ten-thirty. It’s slower than usual, but I chalk it up to the disruption in the schedule. I didn’t show up at all yesterday. It’s a good thing people noticed. If I had a failing business, no one would mention it at all.
I’m relieved to flip the sign to CLOSED. Seeing my regulars is good, but I still feel bruised from yesterday. I need to move my hands, focus on measurements, and let my mind work through it in the background.
Plus, I don’t want the custom orders to be late.
Four orders of iced sugar cookies. Two birthday cakes. When I’m done with those, I need to put together some designs for a wedding cake that’s due in about a month. Some couples want to deliberate on the cake for a long time before they decide. That’s fine by me, as long as they get what they want in the end.
I’m covered in flour pretty much immediately.
I don’t feel any lighter.
Cookies come out of the oven, but the weight in my chest won’t give up. I mix cake batter and put it in to bake, but I feel as gray as the cement-colored clouds outside. Even the weather has nothing but sadness to offer.
It’s Gabriel. Being apart from Gabriel. Beinghurtby him. What makes it worse is that I knew what he was doing. In the beginning, he was clear about his plans and how he expected me to help. I thought things had changed.
So I’m not just heartbroken. I’m embarrassed. I was so gullible. So wrong. It doesn’t feel great.
Then there’s the fact that three armed guards escorted me to the front door of the house I grew up in and locked it in my face.
The oven timer rings, sending another echo of surprise through me. I take the cake out of the oven.
When I left, I swore to myself that I wouldn’t go back. But that didn’t mean Icouldn’tgo back. For almost two years, I was the one who controlled my visits.
Then Lydia asked me to go to the benefit. ThenGabrielshowed up again, and I had to go back.
I could still choose to go back. I could choose to go along with his plans. I could choose to try and repay him for the pain he’d suffered.
Can’t do that now. Not unless I agree to join the consortium, which I’m not going to do. I did enough damage without being a member. I can’t work with those people.
“That’s selfish,” I tell a mixing bowl full of fluffy buttercream frosting. “Lydia is still there. If Dad grounds her, that’s the only way you’ll see her.”
The frosting doesn’t answer. It judges me silently.Oh, so there’s a limit to what you’d do for her?
“No. But how am I supposed to sign off on things like insurance fraud? Andmurder?”
How are you supposed to let her suffer alone?
It rains harder. I blink back tears so they don’t fall into the frosting. How am I supposed to do anything with a broken heart? How the hell am I supposed to sustain this?
“It’s one thing to leave,” I tell the frosting in a cool, collected voice. “It’s another thing to get kicked out. I don’t even know why I’m so hurt. It’s basically the same way I’ve been living for two years. Nothing has changed. Not really.”
I don’t want to give in to this feeling. I don’t want to be heartbroken. I want to do my job and protect my sister and make up for what I did. Even if I can’t do that for Gabriel.
Frustration sifts itself in with anger and sadness like sugar and baking powder into flour.
If I’d only understood what my father was asking, I wouldn’t have done it. Does that make any difference? I’m still hisdaughter. I benefited from his crimes. For years. The money he spent on private school and comportment lessons might as well be tattooed on my skin.
I’m boxed in by the past, boxed in by the too-small kitchen, and boxed in by the recipes.
There’s no hope of escape, is there?
