“Hi!” She chirps at me, eyes bright. “Do you have more of the cookies that were here yesterday?”
“I think I do,” I say, smiling. I pull out my tongs and open one of the containers, fishing out one of the almost-oatmeal-raisin cookies and holding it up. “These?”
“Oh my god, yes. I want two dozen. And do you have any meat pies? I want a dozen of those, too.” She clasps her handsunder her chin. “I don’t know what you’ve done recently, but I swear I can’t get enough of your food.”
I scoop up the cookies for her order, noticing that they’re very unlike mine. Whereas mine pancake out, becoming flat and thin, these are thick, perfect circles. It should sting my pride that Ruth-Ann is so much better at baking than I am, but I remember all the pointers she was mentioning as she worked in my kitchen. I remember something about butter.
I remember her cool fingers brushing over my forehead, and her feeding me soup. Not even the lady that runs the dorm checked in on me. Only Ruth-Ann. So I smile at my customer and toss in an extra meat pie (tender! flaky! not falling apart!) into the bag. “A friend was helping me out yesterday and she’s got a fantastic recipe. I’m going to have to steal it from her.”
“Please do. I will be here every day. Thank you so much.” She clutches the bags and beams at me, handing over her credits and then hurrying on to finish her errands.
More people arrive after that, as most of my regular customers know to come early to get the best selection. Some ask how I’m feeling, some gush about the food from yesterday, but all the business is welcome. I have a busy line for a while, and then things slow down as the morning grows warmer and I’m pushing the last of my pastries toward the front of the trays to make it more visually appealing. Thank god I’m almost sold out, because my energy is draining fast, and I can think of nothing more appealing than a nap at the moment. I’m dragging, but I’m happy.
There’s something so terrifying about running your own business. You worry that if you miss one day of work, people will forget all about you, realize that they don’t need you. I’m glad it isn’t true, at least for today.
I nudge pastries after my next customer, counting how many I have left. I’ll just discount the remainder so I can finish up and head home?—
“You look beat.”
Glancing up, I see Ruth-Ann with her familiar, perfectly smooth bob of shoulder-brushing black hair. She has an insulated thermos in her arms and watches me with a wary smile. As usual, she looks like crisp, ironed perfection.
“Stop, you’re going to make me get a swelled head with all these compliments,” I say in a dry voice.
A mortified expression crosses her face. “I didn’t mean it like that. I meant?—”
“It’s okay. I’m not offended. Iambeat.” I gesture at the remaining baked goods in my cart. “Almost done for the day, though. Thank you again for the help.”
She holds the thermos out to me, her body stiff and awkward. “I thought you might be tired. I brought you some night tea.”
Again, I’m touched at her thoughtfulness. Negative things might be the first to come to mind when she opens her mouth, but her actions show differently. I need to remember that. I take it from her. “I really appreciate it. I could use the energy.”
Ruth-Ann crosses her arms over her chest, her gaze dropping to my cart. She considers the trays, then looks up at me. “I can buy what you have left. The guys will appreciate some snacks.”
I make a face at her. “Oh my god. Youcannotbuy the cookies you baked. Let me give them to you!”
“What? No!” She starts pulling credits out of her pocket with a shake of her head. “Like you said, you have to make a living. I’m paying you.”
“Absolutely not!”
“Absolutely yes!”
We glare at each other. I lift my tongs and clack them. “Don’t make me beat you with these.”
Her mouth twitches, and then a giggle erupts from her. It sounds rusty and adorable, as if she never laughs, and my heart flutters with how cute she is. Her nose fucking crinkles when she giggles. I can’t stand it. I grin back at her and clack the tongs again just to hear her laugh even harder.
“Okay, fine, you win. I don’t want to endure death by tongs.” She puts her credits back in her pocket, smiling. “Please, shower me with free pastries.”
“That’s better.” I start to bag up the remainders, glancing over at her as I do. “Everyone was super complimentary about the cookies, by the way. Thank you.”
“It was your idea,” she demurs. “I just tweaked it a bit.”
“Well, I appreciate any and all advice. It didn’t occur to me to ask anyone when I had the idea for the bakery cart. It’s been so long since I had anyone I could bounce ideas off of, you know? Forgot that I’m not an island and all that. So I really am thankful for the assistance. And your soup was great, too.” Wow, and I just apparently decided to blurt out a million things to her.
“Of course,” Ruth-Ann says simply, and I feel like an even bigger dweeb for word-vomiting at her.
It’s silent for a long moment, and I finish bagging the pastries and hand it over to her. It’s too quiet, and she takes the bag and stands there awkwardly for a moment. Then, she gestures over her shoulder. “I guess I should go.”
As she turns away, I desperately search my mind for something to discuss with her and blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “Pies!”
