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“Emily,” she scolds.
“No, really. Libby hates me most of the time. The girls at Dex’s strip club definitely hate me. I just got fired. It’s starting to feel like the common denominator in all these situations is me.” Dear God, I sound pathetic.
“Well, I love you. And you’re not objective,” Serena says, using her most clinical tone. “Your opinion can’t be trusted right now.”
I huff out a sad laugh.
“The ol’ ladies of Dex’s motorcycle club love you. Shelby was telling me all about your day at the track and how much fun she had.”
“We did have fun.”
“Libby loves you too,” Serena continues. “She’s just going through it right now. You remember what the teenage years were all about.” She shakes her head. “I think it’s probably even harder today than it was for us.”
That’s saying something since I know how tumultuous Serena’s teenage years and early twenties were.
“Yeah,” I answer slowly. “I’m lucky. If she were anything like I was at her age, I’d throw myself off a cliff.”
She chuckles and shakes her head. “I doubt you were that bad.” She squares he shoulders and stares straight into the screen. “Listen to me, you’re better off without this job, Emily.”
“Am I?” My tone’s skeptical but not hostile.
“Yes,” she insists. “You don’t want to work for a place that has so little respect for your family’s well-being. Fuck them.” Her fierce expression softens. “I know it hurts right now. But you’ll get through this,” she promises me. “It’s always darkest before the dawn.”
Her emphatically delivered words bring a smile to my face. “Thanks.”
Her head tilts to the side as if she’s trying to see behind me. “Where are you? In your car?”
“Yup. I was too upset to drive far but I didn’t want to have my meltdown in their parking lot.”
“Good call.” She squints. “Where are you now?”
“Uh…” I turn and check out the parking lot, noticing the white, red, and green plastic sign on top of a tall, skinny black pole. “The parking lot of that Italian bakery we used to love.”
“Oooo,” she squeals. “I miss their Baci di Alassio. I haven’t found anything like that down here, even though there’s a really great Italian bakery not that far from us.”
Now that she mentioned the rich chocolate-hazelnut cookies, I kind of want to stuff one, no, make that one dozen, in my face.
“You’re not that far from Crystal Ball,” she continues. “Why don’t you go into the bakery, get yourself some cookies and coffee, then call Dex and see if you can stop by? I wish I was closer. I’d come hug you right now.”
“Aw.” Now I want to cry because I miss my friend, not because of my stupid job. “All right, maybe I’ll do that.”
“Good.” She beams at me. “You’ve got this, Emily. It’s going to be okay.”
“Thanks, Serena.”
We disconnect and I sit there staring straight ahead for a few seconds. At least I don’t feel like puking and crying. No, now it’s more of a numb fear settling into my bones.
Desperate not to succumb to wallowing, I shove my door open and walk into the bakery. The sweet, warm, delicious scents have me salivating almost immediately. I take my time studying the glass-enclosed counters of treat after treat. Cookies, pastries, cakes, donuts. I could eat all of it right now.
My gaze lands on glistening slices of lemon curd tiramisu. Hello, new friend. I order a slice of that, and a dozen Baci di Alassio cookies. They’re not all for me. I’ll bring some home for Libby. Under the watchful eye of the woman behind the counter, I move to the last display case full of freshly made donuts and muffins. What does Dex like? I shouldn’t drop in unannounced without bringing him something.
“Can I have a dozen donuts, too?” Maybe I’ll drop those off in the dressing room for the dancers. If Dex’s going to be their manager, I might as well try to get along with them, right? “And a dozen muffins?”
The woman nods and expertly folds a thin white cardboard box, neatly placing a variety of donuts inside. She grabs a slightly smaller box for the muffins.
As much as I love my tea, those chocolate cookies are so good with coffee. “Two large coffees. Room for cream,” I order.
“Sure.”
Another woman takes my boxes of treats—which are now a small tower—and pushes them down to the register.
My butthole clenches at the total the cashier announces. Maybe I went overboard. It’s not like I have a paycheck coming after this week. Screw it. I fumble the cash out of my wallet and hand it over, then drop a generous tip in the jar.
I’m trying to figure out how in the hell I’m going to carry all those boxes and the coffees to my car when the cashier opens a large, brown paper shopping bag and expertly slides the boxes inside.
