By the time we make it to the checkout counter, we’ve tagged four chairs, two small tables, the bench, and a battered-but-charming coat rack I didn’t know I needed until Mom spotted it. The shop owner beams at us as we arrange for delivery.
Back in the car, I feel lighter somehow—not just from finding pieces I love, but from the steady hum of Mom’s easy company, the rhythm of imagining and planning together.
For a few hours, I didn’t think about the bakery’s empty doorway or the man who hasn’t crossed it in days. All I thought about was how this place is finally starting to look like home.
We load into the car, the trunk full of thrifted treasures that are small enough I don’t need to have them delivered. Mom buckles her seat belt with a satisfied sigh.
“We earned lunch after that haul,” she says, brushing a smudge of dust off her hands. “Maybe even a drink or two.”
“I’m down for that,” I say as my stomach growls. “I think we deserve it.”
“How about The Wandering Pint?” Mom suggest. “They’ve got those really good lunch specials—soup and sandwich for, like, eight dollars.”
My stomach gives a small twist, and I’m way too quick with, “No.”
Her brows lift. “No?”
I scramble for something that sounds casual. “I mean, not today. We should try that new place instead—uh, Rustwood Kitchen? It opened earlier this year. I’ve been wanting to check it out.”
She studies me for a beat, and I keep my eyes on the road ahead, pretending to fiddle with the AC vent. “You sure? The Wandering Pint’s right down the street, and it’s always good.”
“Yeah, but this place is supposed to have really great flatbreads,” I say, maybe a little too brightly. “And their fries are hand-cut. We should branch out.”
I see her purse her lips out of the corner of my eye, but she doesn’t push it, just nods and pulls out her phone to get directions. My grip on the steering wheel eases a fraction. No way am I sitting across from Mom in the pub where Ben is working, where I’d have to pretend like everything is all right between us.
“Rustwood it is,” she says finally, settling back in her seat. “But you’re paying if it’s terrible.”
I laugh, relieved, and turn toward the new place, telling myself it’s just about trying something different. But deep down, I know better.
The drive is quiet after that. Mom scrolls on her phone, probably checking the menu, and I keep my eyes on the road, grateful for the silence but tense all the same.
The radio plays softly in the background, some song I barely register, and the air between us feels thick for some reason.
I pull into Rustwood’s small lot and slide into a space near the front. We head inside, and the host leads us to a table by the window. It’s bright here—whitewashed brick walls, neat little tables and chairs.
We glance at the menus, place our orders—a flatbread for me, some kind of roasted veggie sandwich for her—and hand the menus back. The server leaves, and for a moment, there’s just the sound of clinking silverware and quiet conversation from nearby tables.
Mom leans back in her chair, crossing her arms. Her eyes are sharp, even in the cozy light. “All right,” she says, tone deceptively casual. “Spill it.”
I force a small laugh, lifting my water for a sip. “Spill what?”
“What’s going on with you,” she says, matter-of-fact, like it’s already been decided I’m hiding something. “Something’s been going on for a couple weeks. I’ve waited for you to open up on your own, but it hasn’t happened. So, spill it.”
I set my glass down a little too carefully, my smile tight.
“I’m fine,” I say, and even to my own ears, it sounds like the worst kind of lie.
Mom raises one brow. “That’s the answer every teenager gives their parents right before admitting they failed algebra.”
“I’m not a teenager.”
“You’re acting like one.” Her tone is mild, but her gaze doesn’t waver. She’s got that unshakable patience that used to drive me insane when I was a kid—like she could just sit there forever until I blurted out whatever she wanted to know.
I fold my napkin in my lap, then unfold it again, fussing with the edge so I don’t have to look at her. “It’s just… stress. The bakery. Trying to get everything ready in time. You know.”
“I do know,” she says, “and I also know that’s not the whole story.” She leans forward slightly, lowering her voice like we’re co-conspirators instead of mother and daughter. “Is it a guy?”
My head snaps up, heat flooding my face before I can stop it. “Why would you think that?”
