Mom promises to bring the quilt she’s working on to throw over one of the mismatched chairs in the corner, and Dad insists that the plumbing under the prep sink “sounds funny.”
While I’m grateful for the hours they’ve spent here this afternoon making every surface shine, I practically shove them all out before they can start up again.
Now it’s quiet.
My kitchen.
It sinks in and practically makes me giddy.
Everything has been delivered and installed, all the furniture I have has been sanded, painted, and set out. The counters shine, the floors still smell faintly of lemon from the scrubbing. My arms ache from scouring every inch, sweat still drying at the back of my neck, but none of it matters. For the first time, the space feels finished. Real. Mine.
I tug open the drawer where my measuring cups now live, feeling a small spark of satisfaction at how smoothly it slides. Everything has a place. Everything is ready.
Time for the first real test.
I pull the big glass bowl close and start the dough for cinnamon rolls—my promised payment, my ritual, my way of christeningmykitchen inmybakery. Flour dusts into the air, settling over the counters I just scrubbed, and I don’t care. The smell of yeast, warm water, and sugar fill the air.
My hands know the motion so well that they don’t even need my brain. Stretch, fold, knead. Again and again, until the dough tightens under my palms and springs back when I press my thumb into it.
The silence is strange. Earlier, the kitchen had been full of noise—Jason clattering pans, Mom asking where I wanted her to stack boxes, Dad whistling as he checked seals on the oven doors. Now, the only sounds are the slap of dough against the counter and the deep rumbling of the oven as it heats up.
It feels good.
I set the dough in a greased bowl, cover it, and leave it near the warming oven to rise. My hands itch with impatience, so I move on to the filling: butter, sugar, cinnamon, and a pinch of cardamom because I like the way it rounds out the spice. I cream it together until it’s a fragrant paste, rich and sweet.
Somewhere in the back of my head, I think about Ben.
I don’t want to. I’ve spent the last few weeks keeping my head down, focusing on paint and fixtures and permits, on ovens and shelving and bulk orders of flour and sugar. Whenever I caught myself drifting toward him—toward that night, toward the mess we made of something we shouldn’t have even started—I pushed harder on the work.
But then he walked in with that toolbox.
I press the spatula into the mixture harder than necessary, scraping the sides of the bowl with sharp strokes. He didn’t have to help. He could have kept walking. And yet there he was, shoulder to shoulder with delivery guys, muscling my fridge through the door.
I don’t want him taking up space here. Not in this kitchen. Not when it finally feels like mine.
When the dough has doubled, I roll it out on the floured counter, pressing the rolling pin into the pliant mass until it stretches wide and even. The cinnamon butter spreads under my spatula in thick ribbons, and I breathe in the scent like it might steady me.
But my stomach shifts unexpectedly. Not hunger but something else. A small wave of queasiness rolls up the back of my throat.
I pause and take a cleansing breath.
It passes after a moment, leaving me blinking down at the dough. Weird. Usually, the smells of baking ground me, make me hungry, calm me.
I shake it off, roll the dough into a tight log, and slice the spirals clean. They land on the tray in neat, expectant rows. By the time they’ve risen again, I’ve convinced myself the nausea was nothing, maybe I just needed water. I gulp from the bottle on the counter, the cool liquid soothing, and slide the tray into the oven.
The smell is instant. Warm, sweet, spiced. It fills the kitchen, seeps into the walls, giving the building its first taste in years. My shoulders drop an inch, the ache in my arms forgotten.
This is why I do it. This is what I want my customers to feel when they walk through that door. Like they’ve entered somewhere safe and irresistible.
I lean against the counter, arms folded, watching the glass. The rolls puff higher, edges turning golden, sugar bubbling. My stomach twists again.
I press my palm flat against it.
No.
Not now. Not here.
The smell has never turned my stomach before. Never.
