Cassidy
Tears well as I watch Chase drive away. Turning on my heel, I storm back into the house, slamming the door and parking myself on the recliner. Staring at Dad with a narrowed glare.
“That was uncalled for. You were an asshole to him for no reason.”
“Really, Cassidy?Red Thompson?”
“Yes, Dad.Chase Thompson.We… we hooked up one time. And at first, I didn’t know if I was going to tell him I was pregnant. But he turned up here because he heard a rumour, and I couldn’t lie to him—”
“Yet you can lie to me?” He exhales loudly, cracking his knuckles. “He’s a loser, Cass. I don’t know what the hell you were doing hanging around him in the first place—you know he’s nothing but trouble. Destined for prison or worse.”
“You don’t know him.” I spit the words, unblinking, with a pounding in my skull. Nostrils and eyes burning as I will myself not to cry. “You don’t.”
“Come on. You’re a smart girl—you’ve gotta be able to see through the bullshit. That’s what this is.Bullshit. You’ve been there as often as I have to see the shit he pulls. The drinking, fighting, acting like an idiot withhis cowboy buddies. It’s exactly how his dad used to be. Same bullshit twenty years later.”
Exasperated, I throw my hands in the air, letting them fall against the padded armrests with a resounding thud. “This is why I lied to you, Dad. Because I knew you’d be afucking assholeabout it.”
My jaw quivers, dispersing droplets of brackish tears across my lap. They pour down my face, thankfully blurring my vision because the last thing I want right now is to see my dad’s face.
“So yeah. I told you Shelby was coming to the ultrasound yesterday, but it was Chase. By the way, we’re having a girl. Not that you’ve bothered to ask.”
I suck in my lips and look over at him, taken aback by the broad smile gracing his face.
“Wow, Cassie. I’m sorry I didn’t ask. I meant to, obviously… God, baby girls are the best, you know.”
“Yeah, Chase is pretty excited.”
“Cassie, I—”
“Save it. You need to go.”
I don’t bother waiting for him to leave before dragging my feet down the hall and burying myself under the covers. My pillowcases smell faintly like Chase—freshly lit wood stove with a hint of tobacco. I inhale his scent, clutching the pillow for comfort and letting myself fall apart. About being in my thirties and not knowing what the hell I’m doing. About having a one-night stand and getting pregnant. About that guy turning out to be sweeter than I imagined, and how painful it is that nobody else sees it.
An extraordinarily rude beam of sunlight streams through an opening in my curtains, straight onto my eyelids. Blinking away the sleepiness, Islide my hand around in the dark for my phone. Eleven o’clock… in the morning, I assume. With a yawn, I pull myself out of bed and saunter down the hall to my office.
While this morning started out one of the best I’ve ever had, it quickly devolved. And now I may as well keep the shitty mood going by packing up my leatherworking tools. I flip the light switch, pleasantly surprised to see the power’s back on, and stare at the mountain of work in front of me. My dad offered to help weeks ago, but this pregnancy task needs to be done alone. I need the catharsis of putting this stuff away—putting this part of me away.
The lid snaps off a blue plastic tote, and I plop down in the leather desk chair.
There’s no need to be sad about giving up this silly little hobby. Think about the baby.
I sigh, carefully packing tools one after another into the various totes I have around the room, then moving on to the meticulously stored leather. I grab a small piece of scrap and hold it to my nose, inhaling deeply—calming my body and easing my emotions. Exhaling with tear-filled eyes and rattling breath.
By the time I’m done, I’m sure I’ve cried every last tear available to me. I’m numb and tired and starving. Naturally, with Chase cooking here most nights, my fridge is full of ingredients, but nothing helpful for a non-cook like me. He won’t be here with dinner for hours, and I’m obviouslynotshowing up at The Horseshoe today. Which leaves me with Anette’s Bakery down the street. Fantastic cinnamon rolls, awful gossip mill.
But shit. A cinnamon roll would be pretty great.
Two minutes later I’m bundled in winter gear and heading out into the snow. Rather than digging out my car, I opt to trudge through the mid-calf–deep powder. The sun warms my cheeks, despite the air being cold enough my nose tingles and my breath creates dense fog. And kids run past hurling snowballs, clearly thrilled by the early season blizzard.
Anette’s Bakery is a small shop on Wells Canyon’s tiny Main Street, tucked between a home goods store and the library. Anette has to be at least seventy and has been running the place since long before Dad and I moved to town. On a good day, when the breeze is right, I can smell fresh bread from my front yard a few blocks away.
The door opens with a jingle, and I pull off my mittens, stuffing them in my pockets. Despite the heavy snowfall, the cozy bakery’s crowded with people sitting in every overstuffed chair and huddled around the quaint bistro tables. The smell of ground coffee and sprinkled cinnamon floods my nostrils, causing an incessant rumbling in my stomach. I sashay to the counter, where Anette’s standing with a flour-covered apron and sparkling, grandmotherly eyes.
“Well, good morning, young lady. Long time, no see.”
I put on a happy face for her. “Morning, Anette. How are the grandkids?”
“Oh, they’re a handful. You here for a cinnamon roll?”
