My apartment welcomes us with its familiar warmth. The small Christmas tree in the corner shines with white lights, casting a soft glow across my living room. The space is tiny but mine – for another few days, anyway. The thought sends a fresh wave of panic through my chest.
Charlie sets the cookies down on my coffee table and moves to the kitchen to grab the wine and glasses.
I sank into the worn cushions of my sofa, pulling the chunky knit throw over my legs, suddenly cold despite the apartment's warmth. My gaze falls on the framed photo on my side table – me on opening day of Sugar Rush, beaming with pride, keys in hand. The woman in that picture seemed like a stranger now.
Charlie comes back with the wine and pours us both glasses. She hands one to me, the deep burgundy liquid sloshing against the sides.
"To new adventures," she says, raising her glass with a determined gleam in her eyes.
I clink my glass against hers, the sound hollow and small in the quiet apartment. The wine tastes bitter on my tongue, but I take a long swallow anyway, welcoming the burn as it slides down my throat.
"New adventures," I echo, the words tasting as bitter as the wine. "Like becoming homeless the day after Christmas."
Charlie settles beside me on the couch, tucking her feet under her. "You're not going to be homeless, Holly. You know you can stay with me as long as you need."
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. The thought of leaving this place, of boxing up my life and moving into Charlie's spare room, sends a fresh wave of grief through me. It's not just losingthe bakery—it's losing the home I've made above it, the life I've built here.
"I know," I manage finally. "Thank you. I just... I can't believe this is happening."
The doorbell rings, announcing the arrival of our Thai food. Charlie jumps up to answer it while I take another long sip of wine, hoping it will dull the sharp edges of my pain.
Chapter 30
Denton
Ibarely slept last night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Holly. The shattered look on her face when I told her I was leaving. The way her voice broke when she called me out on my shit.
A soft sound breaks the stillness. The shuffle of small feet on hardwoods. I turn and see Tabby standing in the hall, clutching Mr. Sparklepants, her worn unicorn plushie. Her pajamas are rumpled, her dark hair a tangled cloud around her face.
She’s not her usual bright and curious morning self. Instead, she looks like someone turned out the light inside her.
“Hey, Tabby Cat,” I say, my voice rough with sleep. “You hungry? Want some pancakes?” My mind immediately goes back to the chocolate chip pancakes Holly made for them both last weekend.
Tabby just shakes her head, her gaze fixed on the Christmas tree behind me. She doesn’t come closer. Just stands there, small and impossibly fragile, hugging Mr. Sparklepants like a shield.
She hasn’t said more than three words since I picked her up from my mom’s yesterday afternoon. Mom and I told her together about the move to San Francisco. I tried my best tosell her on all the good things about California, but she started crying and didn’t want to hear anymore.
“Okay,” I manage. “Maybe later.” I take a step towards her, but she shrinks back slightly, pressing herself against the doorframe. The tiny flinch is a dagger to the gut.
She turns without a word and pads silently back down the hall towards her room.
I sink onto the cold leather sofa, dropping my head into my hands. What have I done?
The sharp buzz of the intercom cuts through the silence. I jerk my head up. Who the hell…? I cross to the panel, hitting the button. “Yes?”
“Denton? It’s Mom.”
I buzz her in, bracing myself for what’s to come.
The elevator dings moments later. The doors slide open, and Mom steps out, shedding her wool coat and scarf, her expression carefully neutral.
“Morning,” she says, her voice calm. Too calm. She hangs her coat on the rack. “Where’s my girl?”
“Her room,” I mutter, gesturing down the hall. “She’s… quiet this morning.”
Mom nods, her lips pressing into a thin line. She walks towards Tabby’s room without another word to me.
The soft murmur of her voice, low and soothing, drifts down the hall a moment later, followed by the faintest, hitching sob from Tabby. The sound twists the knife deeper. I lean back against the cool wall, closing my eyes, waiting for the inevitable.
