Brooke: Wait, did you talk to Jackson?
Annette: Not yet. Why?
Brooke: I mean…
Annette: Yes?
Brooke: Never mind. I've spent too much of life in the company of frat boys.
Brooke: Don't even think about ditching me. I'll go to your place and drag you out of the kitchen.
Annette: Understood but please be aware you're buying the drinks tonight.
Brooke: You got it, babe.
Before leavingto meet Brooke at The Galley, I flipped through my calendar and counted the days since my last visit. Forty-two. I should've been able to estimate that without tapping my fingertip against each uniform square but I couldn't believe so much time—and so little—had passed since that night.
I remembered the chin-quivering ache that sent me in search of liquid pain relief. It'd seemed like a real, palpable hurt, something I could wrap my hands around. And maybe it was. Looking back on it, I could barely reach those feelings of sadness, loss, humiliation. They were there but they weren't the same as the rough stab of regret I experienced every time my thoughts wandered to Jackson.
I should've handled things differently. I knew that now. It was possible I knew it in the moment but I'd been rubbed raw by the interaction with my family and didn't say the right things. Rather, I ran in the opposite direction of the right things and now I was busy charting my way back.
There were no plans, no recipes for fixing things with Jackson. I'd spent the past couple of days paging through cookbooks and browsing foodie blogs to find the pastry that said "I'm sorry and I want to fix things but I'm also scared and don't know how."
Food was magical like that. With a single dish, one was able to say a million different things.Welcome home. Congratulations. Marry me. Happy birthday. My condolences. Feel better. I'm sorry. I love you.
I'd tested a few recipes last night in the hopes of stumbling onto the perfect combination of heart, comfort, and sweet. Chocolate zucchini cake, banana bread, éclairs. None of them were quite right and I couldn't go to Jackson until I had it right. Until I'd folded my love for him in with the dry ingredients and knew he'd be able to taste it in every crumb.
Before closing the shop for the night, I noticed a text from Brooke.
Brooke: Running late. Grab a seat at the bar and I'll be there soon.
Annette: Is everything okay?
Brooke: Fine. Dealing with stuff at the house.
Annette: We can reschedule. Or I can go there. Whatever you want…
Brooke: Stop it right now. I'll be there soon. Ish. Soonish.
With that knowledge,I grabbed two new cookbooks and tucked them into my tote bag. Perhaps I'd find the Rosetta Stone of pastries in one of them. Once the shop was locked up, I headed to the scene of the original crime—The Galley. I returned, my head held high, and Owen and Cole showed up not more than two minutes after I settled into a seat at the bar.
Of course.
But it wasn't just my former fake flame and his boyfriend. The entire town—or so it seemed—was at The Galley tonight.
JJ Harniczek tossed a coaster in my direction, the cardboard square spinning across the bar top. "Long time, no see," he remarked. "Did it take you all this time to shake off the hangover?"
I reached into my bag for one of the books and set it in front of me. "I'm going to read my book until Brooke gets here," I said, tapping my palm against the cover. "We don't have to talk about vodka and other bad memories."
"Bam Bam's coming?" JJ asked with a hoot. "I'm really gonna need the sheriff tonight. One of you, well, that's one kind of trouble. The two of you? That's a lot more trouble. Should I call him now or wait until you're nice and sloshed?"
I didn't want to meet Jackson on these terms again. I didn't want him coming to my rescue and putting me back together when I was capable of rescuing myself, putting myself back together.
I gave JJ an unimpressed stare and opened my book. "Make yourself useful. Go pour me some pinot grigio," I said, flicking my hand toward the bottles lined up behind him.
JJ dropped his forearms to the bar and leaned forward. "You used to be a good girl," he said. "All prim and proper, keepin' your shoes shined and your nose clean." He eyed me, as if he was seeing me for the first time. "You're not so good anymore, are you?"
"I'm pretty sure pinot grigio is the official drink of good girls everywhere," I replied.
