My teeth clamp together as I work to control my anger. “It’s a trip to Oregon to clear my head.” Addison knows how much I love Oregon, how deeply I miss my grandma. I’d told her on more than one occasion. She must know I’m not running away, just attempting to heal.
“Call it whatever you need to call it to make yourself feel better about deserting Warren.” Her voice is cold, and it only solidifies what I’ve known for awhile now. We’ll never be sisters-in-law, and we’re no longer friends either.
I squeeze my eyes shut. I have nowhere to put my frustration, nowhere to send the injustice I’m experiencing. “This is my bakery, Shannon, and—”
She snorts loudly, disbelievingly, in such a cruel way it stops me short. “It was never yours, Addison.”
No matter what she says, no matter who paid the mortgage, that bakery was mine. I worked for every dollar it earned, I made each baked good that touched someone’s lips.
“I don’t foresee us needing to talk again. Have a nice life.”
There is no click, no obvious sign she has hung up. Only silence.
I tuck the phone back into my purse and stare up at the sign above the door.Addison’s.
This place was mine.Mine.
And I’ve learned how to lose what’s mine.
In the past ten months, I’ve lost an entire life.
* * *
At least Imade it to my car before the tears began pouring like rain.
Normally I hate traffic, but this morning it’s almost soothing, the stop and go, as dictated by something mechanical and not a vengeful puppeteer pulling the strings.
I choke on a sob and touch the brake, gliding to a stop at a red light. My hand dips into my purse, finding my phone. I need to read someone else’s bad news. I’ve been sitting in my own for so long.
It takes three seconds to navigate to a gossip site. Two seconds to see the top story: Self-Help Guru Needs To Help Herself. I skim the body of the article. Essentially, her football boyfriend slept with the stripper from his bachelor party. I scroll down to the comments section. Most of them have a pitying tone. Some berate her for not seeing this coming, because apparently her boyfriend’s career makes him a guaranteed philanderer. And from a few vitriol spews.
DrummerGirl423:I mean, really, who cares? She probably doesn’t even have a heart, and if she does, then this famewhore got what was coming to her. She can go cry into 1000 thread count sheets about her NFL fiancé, then tomorrow accept an even bigger diamond and go on social media to spout more stupidity and tell us all that ‘mistakes are part of the process’.
A short breathpushes from me.Geez.And I thought Vivienne and Shannon were cruel.
DrummerGirl423 probably didn’t give this woman a second thought after she hit publish. She stepped away from the screen and microwaved her dinner, or wiped a child’s runny nose, or who knows what else.
Outrage spreads across my chest.
I’m going to respond. I’m going to tell every one of these mean people just how nasty their comments are and how their words affect others. I’m going to stand up for myself. I mean, for this woman.
A flash of anger streaks through me, and I stomp my foot.
Right onto the gas pedal.
And into the car in front of me.
Metal kisses metal, an unmistakable sound.
“Nooooo,” I groan, my forehead falling down onto my steering wheel. A second later I lift my head and watch the driver of the car I’ve just plowed into step out of her car. She looks like she’s twelve, but obviously she’s at least sixteen.
I hit the hazard button and climb from my seat, meeting her at our enmeshed bumpers.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, at the same time taking in her creamy, unlined skin.
She looks scared. Another fawn looking for its mother.
I take a deep breath and try to calm her with an apologetic smile. “We’re going to exchange insurance information. Tell your parents you were rear-ended and it’s not your fault. My insurance will pay for your new bumper.” Her car is one of those little starter cars, the kind with more plastic than metal.
