He’s right. It’s time for me to stop breaking things and start fixing things. Beginning with London.
Trent puts on the last piece of duct tape, and I stand up straight.
“Thanks for the help, bro.” I slap his shoulder and head to my room.
I don’t know if it’s the lack of blood or the potential brain injury, but I sleep really well.
Chapter 7
London
Icouldn’tsleepatall. I wish I could say I was worried about the damage Sean created. But instead, my thoughts circled around the man himself. The first time I saw him… and one of the last times I saw him when I promised myself I’d never again give him room in my head, or my heart.
My alarm hasn’t gone off yet, and I’m burrowed deep under my comforter, trying to hide from the embarrassment I feel. I never once thought Sean would step foot in my bakery. Otherwise, I would have come up with a new name. Ugh, what must he think? That I’m some pathetic high school girl hung up on him? Which I’m not. I haven’t thought about him in years. But with the way my thoughts have revolved around him for the past eighteen hours, you’d never know.
My alarm finally rings, and I pull myself out of bed, get dressed, and head to the bakery. It looks the same as it did eight hours ago when I left—partially broken.
I don’t regret staying that late. I’m a one-woman show, for now. And I’m proud of that. I know I should have waited to open until I had at least one employee. Technically, I did. She promptly quit two hours into opening day claiming “the vibe clashes with my aura.” But I was too excited. So, I stayed open just enough to get a feel for the market and start laying out the plans and curating menus. I’ve got my grand opening set for January first. If I make it. I've already depleted my original budget. And now I’m even more stressed.
What Sean broke is not easily replaced. I’ll have to get the display case fixed which will put me more in debt to the bank and more at risk of losing everything. Why didn’t I agree when Sean offered to pay to have it fixed? Now I’m never going to see him again. That’s so very Sean: walk into my life, break something, and leave again.
I’ve got the pies halfway out of the broken display case when I change my mind and decide to leave them there instead. The case looks worse without them, and there’s no point in ruining good pies.
I have a few minutes left so I run to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. Then I don my apron and clip up my hair.
That’s as good as it gets today.
My phone pings with a message.
Dad:I see you’re at the shop already. I’ll be over after I take Grandma to church and lunch.
Why did I ever agree to let him install a GPS locator on my phone? Only because I know how much he worries. The day Mom crashed was the only day she had taken a different route home from the store. Ever since then, he’s been obsessed with knowing where I am at all times. But he’s running himself ragged working full time and worrying about me nonstop.
Me:Why don’t you take a nap instead?
Dad:I’llprayabout it ;)
I roll my eyes at his ridiculous joke then put my phone away. Time to focus on the day.
I let out a yawn as I flip open the closed sign and unlock the door.
It remains shut. Someday, I’ll have a line of people out that door waiting for my baked goods.
That day is not today.
I retreat to the kitchen. Every day I add a new item to the menu, and at the end of the day, I tally up what was sold most and least. I’m hoping by the time I officially open, I’ll have a foolproof menu, as well as holiday and weekly specials that keep people coming back for more. Today’s new creation is an apple cider donut.
I watch the time as I bake. I’ve got three potential employees coming in for interviews at noon. Hopefully one of them will be the employee I need. My dad has come in nearly every day, which I am grateful for. Who knew one of the hardest things about running a bakery with one hand would be getting plastic containers open? But I need to be able to do this without his help. I need to prove to myself, and to him, that I can.
Mom was the one who taught me to cook and encouraged my love of baking. We came up with hundreds of recipes working together. Not all of them were winners.
My eyes mist over and I rub the heel of my hand over them. Twelve years was not enough time. There were more hugs to give and more memories to make. We should be making them now, inventing new recipes for my bakery.
I let out a heavy sigh. Wishing for things to be different is like pouring salt on an open wound.
I balance the jar of baking soda on my hip with my prosthetic and reach for the baking powder.
Ding.
