“He…” The word rasps out, choked by tears. “He left, Charlie. He just… walked out.” Saying it aloud makes it real. Horribly, irrevocably real. Another sob rips free. “He’s taking Tabby andmoving to San Francisco to play out there. Said he needs more stability. For Tabby.”
Charlie doesn’t say “I told you so.” She doesn’t launch into a tirade about emotionally unavailable men. She just makes a low, sympathetic sound in her throat. Her hand moves in slow, soothing circles on my back.
“I know, honey,” she murmurs. “I saw him leave. Saw his face.” She pauses. “Looked like he was walking to his own execution.”
Had he hesitated? Maybe looked back? Does it even matter? He kept walking. That’s the only thing that counts.
The tears slow, eventually, leaving me drained. My face feels swollen and tight, my eyes tired from all the tears. I push myself upright, wiping my cheeks with the back of my flour-dusted hand. Charlie silently hands me a clean towel. I take it, burying my face in the soft cotton, inhaling the faint scent of bleach.
“He’s gone,” I whisper, the words muffled but clear. Stating the impossible fact. “And this…” I gesture weakly towards the eviction notice on the counter. “This is real. December 26th.” Saying the date aloud feels like the end. For Sugar Rush. For this chapter of my life.
Charlie follows my gaze. Her jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, a flicker of anger tightening her features before it smooths into grim resolve. She bends, picks up the notice, folds it once and tucks it into the pocket. Out of sight. For now, at least.
“Okay,” she says, her voice regaining some of its usual pragmatic strength. She looks around the bakery, her gaze sweeping over the festive displays, the lights, the half-empty display case still holding a few perfect snowflake cookies.
“First things first. We both need some strong coffee. Then…” She takes a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. “We go upstairsand have a Christmas special marathon? We can watch Rudolph, Frosty, Charlie Brown Christmas… what else?”
“I think we should pack up a little bit first. I don’t want to wait until the last minute.”
“Yea, but is now the time to start, Hols? You’ve had a really rough day. Packing sounds like the last thing you should be doing.”
“I know it sounds crazy, but that’s what I want to do. Just a little bit of it. To get started. And to make it more real.”
Charlie nods and moves towards the small sink area behind the counter. I hear the familiar sounds: the scrape of the coffee grinder, the hiss of steam from the espresso machine.
I walk towards the front window. The large display I spent hours perfecting just days ago – a miniature winter village made of gingerbread houses dusted with powdered sugar snow, surrounded by tiny marzipan trees and spun-sugar reindeer. It’s magical. Or it was. Now, it just looks like a monument to a dream that’s about to be bulldozed.
My fingers brush the cold glass as I look out the window. The streetlights cast long, lonely shadows. No Denton-shaped silhouette hurrying back. No last-minute apologies.
Charlie appears beside me, holding out a large, steaming mug of coffee.
I take the mug and the heat seeps into my cold fingers, a small, fleeting comfort. I take a sip. It’s black, the way Charlie knows I take it when things are bad.
“Thanks,” I murmur, my voice hoarse.
She nods, sipping her own coffee. We stand side by side, looking out at the snowy street, not speaking. After a long moment, she sets her mug down on the nearest table.
“Okay, then,” she says, brushing her hands together. Her tone is brisk, businesslike, cutting through the fog of despair. “Where do we start? Front of the house? Kitchen? Office?”
The question hangs in the air. Wheredowe start dismantling a life? My gaze drifts over the bakery. The cozy seating nooks, now empty. The counter piled high with boxes waiting for cookies that won’t be baked. The cheerful menu board with its festive specials. The Christmas tree in the corner, covered in ornaments.
“The… the decorations,” I say finally, the words sticking in my throat. “We should take down the decorations.” It feels like the least painful place to begin.
Charlie nods, understanding flickering in her eyes. “Okay. Decorations it is.” She heads towards the storage closet tucked behind the counter where we keep the spare boxes and packing supplies. I hear the rustle of cardboard, the sharp tear of packing tape being pulled from the dispenser.
I take another gulp of coffee, the heat burning a path down to my stomach, then set my mug down beside Charlie’s. Time to move. To do something. Anything is better than standing here, drowning in the silence.
I walk towards the tree, a cheap, pre-lit thing I bought on sale years ago. It’s bedecked with mismatched ornaments collected over seasons: chipped ceramic bells, lopsided popsicle stick snowflakes made by neighborhood kids, glitter-dusted pinecones.
Focus. Just take it down. One thing at a time.
I reach for the slightly tarnished silver star first. I drop it into the open box Charlie has placed on the floor nearby. It lands with a dull thud.
Next, the ornaments. I work mechanically. Unhook a glittery pinecone. Drop it in the box. Unhook a chipped red ball. Drop it. A felt reindeer with googly eyes. Drop it.
Charlie’s starts carefully taking down the garlands strung along the counter, coiling the faux pine garlands into neat loops.
Her presence is a balm, steady and undemanding. She doesn’t try to fill the silence with chatter or false optimism. She’s justthere. Working beside me. Sharing the burden of dismantling our little world.
