I smiled, trying not to cry. “I’m fine. Really.”
She started to argue, but the bell chimed again, and this time it was a herd of preschoolers and their daycare wrangler, all sticky fingers and wild energy. The bakery filled instantly with their shouts and laughter and the smell of outdoors.
Noah was at the front of the pack, wearing a red jacket and a grin big enough to split his face in two.
“Mama!” he shouted, barreling through the empty tables. I knelt to catch him, and he hit me with enough force to nearly topple us both.
“Hey, bug,” I said, hugging him tight. “Did you have fun?”
“Yeah! We saw ducks and made a spaceship out of sticks. I made a picture for you.” He thrust a crumpled piece of construction paper at me, already torn at one edge. It was a blob of blue and orange, with a lopsided heart in the middle.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, and meant it.
“Can I have a treat?” Noah asked, eyes locked on the cookie case.
“Yes, but you have to get in line like everyone else.”
I stood, still holding his hand, and led him back to the line, where he waited with his friends. Every other week, the daycarecame to the bakery for cookie time after they played at the downtown park. It was always extra special because Noah got to hang out in the back for the rest of my work day.
Sutton had already given cookies to most of the kids by the time Noah came back around. I grabbed a sugar cookie shaped like a cowboy boot from the top shelf. “Special delivery,” I said, handing it over.
He took it with both hands, cradling it like a treasure, then leaned in close and whispered, “Did you miss me?”
I nodded, blinking back the tears. “All day long.”
Sutton smiled, but didn’t say anything. She just poured a little milk into a paper cup and slid it across to Noah, who clambered up onto a stool and dug into his cookie, crumbs sticking to his chin.
I watched him, my heart squeezing tight and then letting go in slow waves.
The bakery felt different now—full again, alive again. For a second, I could almost pretend that nothing was wrong, that all the noise outside couldn’t touch us.
But when I looked at the clock, I knew there were still hours left in the day. And the only other person I really wanted to see hadn’t shown up yet.
By five, the bakery was empty except for the echo of the radio and the last sticky footprints left by the afternoon rush. I wiped down every table twice, flipped the chairs, swept the floors. Sutton counted the till, her lips moving as she did the math, apron stained with a streak of chocolate.
The air outside had gone blue with dusk, and the light coming through the window made everything inside look flatand a little sad. I locked the front door, flipped the sign to “Closed,” and tried not to let it feel like a metaphor for my entire life. God, I could be dramatic sometimes.
I found Noah in the back room, sitting cross-legged on the floor, building an elaborate track for his toy trucks out of empty cardboard boxes. He looked up and grinned. “Ready, Mama?”
“Almost,” I said, pulling his jacket from the hook and bundling him into it. He stretched his arms up, wanting to be carried, and I obliged, hoisting him onto my hip with a practiced movement that probably wouldn’t last another year before he got too heavy.
Sutton met us at the door, tossing her apron onto a hook. “You want me to walk you out?” she offered.
I shook my head. “We’re fine. It’s not even dark yet.”
She leaned in and kissed the top of Noah’s head, then whispered, “He’ll call when he’s ready, you know.”
I nodded, but the knot in my chest didn’t loosen. “Yeah,” I said. “I know.”
I balanced my purse and the bakery’s day-old bread bag in one hand and shouldered open the back door with the other. The parking lot was mostly empty, just a couple of sedans and Sutton’s ancient Corolla. The sun was a pale coin slipping behind the edge of the mountains, and the air had that sharp, mineral smell that always came with the first true hint of fall.
I tried not to think about Ford. I tried not to think about anything except the warm weight of Noah on my hip.
“Mama,” Noah whispered, tugging at my collar. “Ford!”
He pointed, finger sticky with cookie crumbs, toward the far edge of the lot.
I looked up, squinting into the fading light.
