I didn't letmyself think about Jackson while I baked that night. Instead, I plowed my focus into my pie crusts and fillings, and the Bake Off reruns playing in the background. That combination soothed my senses and lulled me into a Zen state where the implosion of my romantic life didn't seem too bad. And I couldn't dwell on my desire for Jackson when I was busy folding butter into dough.
But I didn't have to think about Jackson to know why I pushed him away when his kisses were heaven and his eyes were hunger. I pushed him away—twice—because I didn't trust myself anymore.
I used to be chock-full of confidence. I knew what I was doing and where I was going, and the path was clear. Striking out on my own, opening this shop, putting everything into making it a success, and…Owen. Confidence struck again, telling me I could have anything—and anyone—if I worked hard enough. Never once did I stop to ask whether I should be doing that work. I believed the world was mine for the taking, and with that arrogance, I took a man who'd never belong to me.
I didn't know what to believe anymore. I'd allowed myself to believe Owen harbored feelings for me—small, sapling feelings that would require time to grow, but feelings nonetheless. But that was a lie perpetrated by my boundless belief in myself, one that succeeded at forcing Owen into an awkward position and humiliating me.
It was a belief in myself but also a slow-rumbling awareness that I had to take anyone I could get, regardless of how poorly we fit together. When I stepped away from the awkwardness and the humiliation, I was forced to see some unpleasant truths. Owen wasn't meant for me and I knew that. I'd known it for ages but I'd allowed myself to believe there was a chance for me because I hadn't seen him date anyone, ever. Aside from grossly disregarding his preference, I was also telling myself I was only worthy of the scraps. That I could live with a love that came from me wearing someone down rather than authentic affection. That I didn't deserve someone who wanted me enough to pursue me.
I wasn't sure where any of that came from. Maybe it was my upbringing; maybe it was something I created. Maybe it was both, or neither. I'd spent so long hustling to make my way and do everything on my own that I didn't know how to accept anything that came without concerted effort. It seemed too good to be true.
Now, I couldn't trust my reaction to Jackson. I didn't know how to abandon the world I'd built around Owen and then construct a new one around Jackson, and I wasn't convinced I should. It was easy to force him into the space Owen vacated, but that seemed like a recipe for disaster. As if disaster wasn't a big enough problem, I didn'twantto slide Jackson into Owen's slot. They weren't interchangeable cogs but creatures with their own shapes and angles. Jackson would never take Owen's place and he wouldn't fit if I tried.
If I was hopping on the truth train and riding all the way to revelation station, I'd see that I didn't know what I wanted or needed. I knew these little pies were delicious and there was a good chance I'd be wiping some wild blueberry filling from Jackson's lip tomorrow, but I didn't know anything beyond that. I couldn't get myself to choose past the point of my thumb brushing over his lip. I saw all the paths—friends, fuck buddies, dating—but I was afraid the ground would collapse beneath me if I took a step forward.
But if Jackson took that step, I knew I'd follow him down whichever path he chose.
I slipped two trays of mini pies into the oven and set the timer. Again, I ignored the dishes, flopping onto the sofa with my phone instead. It was charged, as per Jackson's request. I didn't spend much time on my phone. The cell signal in this area was wobbly and I hated notifications with the fire of a thousand suns. My social media energies were reserved for the shop, and I was a lazy texter, often forgetting to respond to messages for hours.
Case in point: a truckload of messages had piled up from my friend Brooke over the past two days. Brooke and I went to high school together but we barely knew each other back then and didn't become friends until she moved home to Talbott's Cove after a decade away. She lived at her childhood home with her father, Judge Markham. He'd retired from the bench years ago but he was still Judge Markham around here, much in the way many of us gave directions based on landmarks that no longer existed. "Turn right where the Zayre's used to be," or "Around the corner from the old Market Basket, the one they turned into the sporting goods store but that went out of business and now it's Planet Fitness."
Brooke, or Brooke-Ashley as she was known in high school, was my opposite in every way. Tall, blonde, slim, super stylish. If I was the kind of lady who used the wordchic, I'd use it to describe Brooke. But beyond those basics, she was bold and brash where I favored subtly subversive. She was salty when I leaned into killing with kindness. She lived for big risks and bigger payoffs, and I found owning a small business to be more than enough risk.
The one thing we had in common was our single lady status. At the ripe old age of thirty-three, we alternated between wanting to get married right-fucking-now and giving convention the finger. Brooke was a pro at shutting down the well-intentioned fix-up attempts by everyone in this town with an eligible son or grandson. I loved the girl through and through.
I'd never expected to claim Brooke-Ashley Markham as my best friend but I wouldn't have it any other way. Unfortunately for her, I was a terrible texting partner.
Brooke: Could it be any more humid and miserable around here? This weather actually makes me miss NYC subways in the summer and those smell like piss and corn nuts.
Brooke: Okay. Fine. We don't have to talk about the weather.
Brooke: Do you want to get lunch this weekend? We could wear complementary Lily Pulitzer dresses and drive down to Kennebunkport and drink wine and call it lunch. As you do.
Brooke: To be clear, I want the wine. Food is unnecessary.
Brooke: Excuse me, ma'am, but did I just see your cute ass walk of shame its way down the street?
Brooke: I need an explanation for this. If I don't get one, I'm going to start inventing my own.
Brooke: Nope. Can't do it. I tried but I can't figure out why Little Miss Angel Cake would be sneaking home before dawn. That is not your operating system.
Brooke: Serious question, no judgment: do you need some Plan B? I stocked up before I left NYC because I wasn't sure rural Maine had its women's health shit in order.
Brooke: I've done some light recon but no one has any intel for me. I'll never understand how this town can alternate between high-powered rumor mills and cones of silence.
Brooke: I mean, they'd cone of silence all over you. You're like the town mascot.
Brooke: No, you're not a mascot. Mascots are weird. You're more like our Good Witch.
Brooke: Or something like that. You're just pretty and happy and everyone loves you.
Brooke: Does that make me the Wicked Witch?
Brooke: Shit.
Brooke: Now that I think about it…I kind of hate you. We can't be friends.
Brooke: In other news, Dad wanted meatloaf for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and he insisted I serve his mashed potatoes with an ice cream scoop so I'm going to need you to talk me through this walk of shame situation before I start eating the wallpaper.
