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"No, no," I insist. "It's fine. He's your father. You're allowed to talk to him any time you like. And get dating advice from him, too. Why not? He has plenty of dating experience, anyway."
Sophia sighs, and I feel guilty, knowing I've said too much. I've gotten too sour. The divorce was as hard for her as it was for me. I don't like putting her in the middle again.
"Forget it," she finally says. "Pretend I didn't say anything."
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—"
"I should probably get going. I have lots of homework. You know how it is."
I sigh through my nose. "I know, baby. I'm sorry. I hope we can talk again soon."
"Of course, we can. Next time, tell me how the bakery is going. Maybe send me some treats for my RA—he deserves it!"
"I will."
"Bye, Mom."
"…bye, Sophia."
* * *
With my head still pounding,I drive as quickly as possible to the bakery.
And as Barton Beach sails past my window, I can't help but be reminded of how much it has changed since I was a child.
There's the ice cream shop I loved when I was eight, now selling Barton Beach memorabilia to tourists to keep the bills paid. The café I would frequent during my stressful college years is gone, now replaced with a dusty motel parking lot. The once short, one-story shops in town have grown into several-story buildings, turning the old fishing port and beach town into the full tourist attraction it has become.
In that way, the town and I are alike. We used to have simple dreams of love and fun.
And now, as we've gotten older, we've turned to a desperate need for money to keep our families and homes afloat.
As the van rounds a corner, I catch sight of another place full of memories, and my stomach sinks in my chest. It's been so long since I've been to this side of town that I almost forgot it was here. And like a slap to the face, I remember that not all my memories of Barton Beach are happy, idyllic ones.
It's Jerry's. The old restaurant where I used to work.
Just part-time, of course, as most first jobs often are. My business degree was still in progress, and I needed a little job to help pay off my tuition early. So that once I graduated, I would be able to start my life. To begin to live fully for myself, as so many young women dream of doing.
However, I didn't find the self-determination I thought I would within those restaurant's walls. Instead, it was where I first met the man who would quickly become my husband.
I feel a sadness grip me as those final images of Dave come back to me. Pictures of another woman on his phone. Hidden receipts. Lipstick behind his ear and the smell of someone else's perfume in his hair.
I harden my jaw and push all thoughts of Dave from my mind. If Sheila thought thinking of the bakery would bring me down, she certainly wouldn't want me dwelling onhim, either. And besides, he's long since out of the picture now. There's no reason to let thoughts of him ruin my day.
After maneuvering through a surprising amount of traffic for this time of the day, I finally get into the parking lot of Sugar Breeze with about twenty minutes to spare before opening.
It's a quaint little space, much smaller than when my mother used to run it. Not just because I can only afford to hire a smaller staff but also because we've sub-leased the other half of the building to a little coffee shop chain to help make ends meet.
When I was a kid, the bakery looked like something from a children's fantasy book, and many of the old hallmarks of the place remain. The painted brick walls, while distinctly less white and slightly scratched up, still retain some shine when the Texas sun hits them just right.
The roof shingles are old and worn, but you can still spot patches of the cotton candy color my mom loved so dearly among the dark, rough patches. The stickers on the windows have begun to curl, but they still look pretty enough that I can't bear to take them down.
Even if I could afford to replace these things, I'm not sure I would want to.
As I dash from my car and into the bakery, I try to remind myself that the great Sylvia Lawson entrusted this place to me.
Whatever disaster Brittany was messaging me about, I can handle.
But as I push past the swinging glass doors and meet my assistant manager's eyes, I know I'm in for something bad.
