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It’s not only in my head, though. It’s a gut feeling. A cold, sick feeling. I don’t make my regular espresso drink. I don’t sneak one of the muffins. The dark, fall morning doesn’t helpat all.It makes everyone going about their business seem sinister.
I want evidence, but I do think it’s real. The hair standing up on the back of my neck is proof enough.
At seven, I put the cakes away and flip the sign to OPEN.
The morning rush begins. Mr. Nelson comes in at seven-fifteen to buy croissants. The muffins sell out almost immediately. So do the raspberry basil scones I’m debuting today. The steady flow of customers is a good distraction, but worry nags me anyway. I smile at all of them, asking questions about their mornings, and check them for signs that they’re not really here for baked goods.
A few people order enough for their entire offices. I send them away with white bakery boxes in their arms. I’d guess that a good percentage of the work done in corporate America is driven by the gift of delicious pastries. Or at least the hope of delicious pastries.
There’s a brief lull between eight and nine, after most people are in the office but before moms show up with strollers on the way to the park. The case is about half-empty, and the quiet brings back my unease.
I keep myself busy. Wipe down the counter. Restock and rearrange the case.
The bell above the door rings, and I whip around, a tray of croissants in my hands. It’s the last one of the morning and it almost spills onto the floor.
A man steps into the bakery. He wears a dark suit and has his phone pressed to his ear. He looks above my head, scanning thebig menu. “It says pastries, croissants, muffins…you want any of that?”
There’s a short pause.
His eyes meet mine. “You got any donuts?”
“Sorry.” I give him my least-terrified, most-apologetic smile. “Two blocks east. There’s a place called Holey Ghost.”
“No,” he says into the phone. “I’ll have to go somewhere else.”
Without another word, he pushes back out of the door, the bell jangling again. He crosses in front of the window, using a hand gesture as he talks to whoever’s on the phone.
Just a random guy.
No big deal.
But my heart is racing like something terrible happened.
All this business with the consortium and Gabriel and his family has me vibrating like a tuning fork. It’s everything and nothing at the same time. Everything from Gabriel. Radio silence from my father. He hasn’t even sent a text since he kicked me out of the house.
I shouldn’t be so worried. Gabriel’s fight with Jameson was bad, but it didn’t end in Gabriel going to attack the consortium. Getting banished from my parents’ house was bad, but it didn’t end with my father showing up here to put the pressure on.
Yet, anyway.
For the moment, I should calm down.
Impossible.
I pull out my phone and open a social media app. Advertising can also be meditative. I take a quick photo of the platter containing the last of today’s croissants and add text, coordinating the font color with the photo.Fun Fact: croissants weren’t invented in France! They’re originally from Austria, and they migrated when none other than Marie Antoinetteasked bakers to replicate her favorite treat from her home country.
I add a few emojis: the croissant, naturally. The French flag. The woman wearing the crown.
Once the post publishes I go to my feed, where I follow a bunch of local businesses and also bakers around the world. There’s a particularly cool five-foot-high fairy-tale castle cake being built live. On a normal day, I might watch the video for a few minutes.
Not today.
I don’t want to be looking down if someone is out there watching. I want to be able to hear if someone comes.
I’m probably overreacting. I shouldprobablymake myself an outrageous espresso and perk myself up like I always do.
My stomach saysno.
Sunlight glints off a windshield through the shop window. The light always looks this way when someone pulls into the metered parking space out front.
