“Sit,” she commands suddenly, pointing to an empty table. “I’m making you coffee. And you’re taking a spiced bun too.” When I start to protest, she adds, “On the house. You look like you need it.”
Before I can argue, the bell chimes again. My stomach drops as Finn enters, his usual energy somewhat subdued this morning. He spots me immediately. “Tay.”
“Finn, your usual?” Noëlle asks. “Why don’t you two sit over there by the window, and I’ll get you both taken care of in no time.”
I sink into the indicated chair, knowing resistance is futile when Noëlle gets that tone. Finn hesitates only briefly before claiming the seat across from me.
“You haven’t been answering your phone,” he says quietly. The accusation carries notes of hurt I’m not ready to deal with.
“Been busy.” I study the scarred tabletop. “Festival stuff, you know how it is. After all, you made the list.”
“About that…” He leans forward, voice dropping lower. “I know it’s been chaotic. But I promise that as soon as the infrastructure is in place, we can handle most of it. I just wantto make sure we don’t accidentally take up more space than was agreed on.”
“It’s fine.”
“Seriously, Tay. You don’t need to?—”
“Not everything is about the damn festival, okay?” The words explode out of me, harsher than intended, but thankfully, no one overhears my little outburst. “Maybe I have other problems that don’t revolve around the fucking Christmas Festival.”
Finn’s expression shifts from concern to confusion. “Tay, what’s going on?”
I scoff. “What? You’re interested in being my best friend now?”
“Tay, that’s not fair.”
“Really? Because from where I’m standing, it seems you haven’t made space or time for the person you call a best friend in weeks.”
His face pales. “I’m?—”
“Whatever.” I’m on my feet now, chair scraping back with an ugly sound.
The bakery has gone quiet, every eye on our corner table. Noëlle stands frozen behind the counter, coffee pot in hand. Shame and anger war in my chest as I look at Finn’s stricken expression.
“Sorry, Noëlle, I’ll take your coffee another time. Just remembered I have another delivery to make this morning.”
I move, shouldering past customers toward the door, taking a deep, cold breath when I’m outside again. I knew I should have gotten someone else to make the deliveries today.
My hands shake as I fumble with my truck keys, adrenaline making that simple task difficult. Behind me, I hear the bakery door open, but I’m already sliding behind the wheel. The engine turns over with a familiar growl, and I pull away from the curb.
In my rearview mirror, Finn stands on the sidewalk looking lost. The sight sends fresh guilt through my system, mixing with anger and confusion until I can’t tell them apart. I press the accelerator harder. The sooner I’m back at the farm, the sooner I can take this energy out on work.
Minutes later, gravel sprays beneath my tires as I pull up to my farmhouse, and I’m out of the truck before the engine fully dies.
The axe feels too light in my hands as I approach the woodpile.
The first log splits with a satisfying crack, pieces falling to either side like my composure at Noëlle’s. I set up another immediately, not allowing myself time to think. The axe bites deep, sending vibrations up my arms that feel like the punishment I deserve.
I know I was a dick to Finn, and I’ll need to apologize. It’s not his fault I’m all torn up inside over his brother. But he’s not totally without fault. I would have talked to him if he’d been around. If he’d uttered any words to me that weren’t about the Christmas Festival.
Probably.
Sweat begins to gather at my collar despite the cool air. Each swing carries more force than the last, the wood giving way beneath the steel of my axe. The pile of split logs grows as the morning turns into the afternoon.
My shoulders burn, but I welcome the sensation. Physical pain feels cleaner than the mess in my head, simpler than remembering Finn’s hurt expression or Bastian’s hands on my skin. The axe rises and falls with increasing speed, my breathing growing ragged as I push harder.
A particularly aggressive swing sends splinters flying, one catching my cheek with a sharp sting. Blood wells, warm against my wind-chilled skin.
Fuck.
