1
Addison
Hot sweat rollsdown my ribcage. It accumulates in my bra, soaking through my tight-fitting black leggings.
My plans for today did not include jogging down a busy street wearing clothing better suited for a chic restaurant with over-priced cocktails. Neither did they include being woken up by my assistant’s phone call.“I can’t get into the store,”she’d told me tearfully. “There’s a lock on the door handles.”
When I saw her name flashing across my phone, I’d had a fleeting thought she needed help with something at the store; a question about a recipe, or the combination for the cash box that she keeps forgetting. Panic surged through my veins as I listened to Ashton, and I rushed from my apartment wearing the first clothes I grabbed.
Forgetting the hot, humid Chicago weather is only the icing on my cake of troubles.
My lungs fill with air and I keep going. Finding a parking spot closer to my bakery would’ve been smart, but I’m out of sorts.
Scratch that.Out of sortsis for a harried young mother trying to quiet her toddler while breastfeeding her infant.
I’m much worse off.
Who does this beating heart belong to?
These thoughts… are they mine?
They can’t be. They. Cannot. Be. Mine.
Because if these thoughts are true, then my life really is a broken, bloody mess.
And the culprits are the last people in the world I would’ve thought could do this kind of thing to me.
Warren’s parents.My fiancé’s parents.
I choke back a sob.
Ex-fiancé.I think, anyhow. It’s not a determination that is easily made, considering the circumstance.
I spot Ashton ahead, picking at her thumbnail. I slow, then come to a stop in front of her. Gently I touch her forearm and manage a huffed greeting. Myhellofeels out of place given the situation, but what is a person supposed to say?
“What are you going to do?” Ashton asks, choosing to forgo a greeting altogether. Her eyes are wide, frightened, and she uses a flattened palm to shield them from the sun. She’s looking to me for direction, a leader to follow, and I don’t have a clue what my next step should be.
I stare up at the sign in the window of my bakery.For Lease, it declares, with the name and number of the leasing company below the script.
A wide variety of bad names float through my mind. I picture my soon-to-be (would’ve been?) mother-in-law and throw every crude name at her scrunched up, judgy, permanent makeup face. I’d yell at her husband too, but he is only guilty of having rubber for a backbone. TheFor Leasesign is the work of his underhanded, vindictive wife.
My gaze moves from the sign to the door, and I think of how I rushed to get here. What was I in a hurry to see? The lockbox on the padded copper door handles, denying entry even to me? Or the giant white sign in the window, announcing my failure in big blue letters to everyone who passes?
If only I could tell Warren about his parents, how cruel his mother has become. Her about-face would shock him as much as it did me.
“This must be a mistake,” I assure Ashton. It’s a lie. I know the sign and the locked doors are not a mistake, but she looks like a fawn in search of its mother, and I feel the need to protect her. “Take the day off. I’ll get this sorted out.” I pat her back, a gesture meant to soothe and also propel her into action. I have a call to make.
Ashton offers me a weak, worried smile and starts off down the busy street. Chicago isn’t the city that never sleeps, but it’s the busiest place I’ve ever lived. The bakery is tucked away on a side road, but it’s hardly quiet. The foot traffic on this street rivals the number of cars zooming past.
Ignoring the curious looks of passersby, I take my phone from my purse and call Vivienne. As it rings and rings, I picture all those names I threw at her in my head. I’d really like to throw them at her in person and watch her forehead try to move as she takes umbrage with them.
“Addison.” My name has apparently replacedhello, and it’s being spoken not by Vivienne, but by her daughter, Shannon. Warren’s sister.
“Shannon, I need to talk with your mom.” Obviously. That’s why I called her phone.
“My mom asked me to tell you there’s no need to have a discussion. If you’re going to turn tail and run away from Warren then she has no choice but to pull her funding.”
Funding. As if this is a passion project instead of my livelihood.
