Dad winced at the pain he heard. “You know as well as I do that if Brett doesn’t want to be found, he won’t be. I know it’s hard, but you’ve got to try to move on. You can’t stay stuck here.”
It took all my willpower to not retort with the age-old line that he had no idea how hard it was, that it wasn’thislife. Seeing as I was in my midtwenties, I was way too old to even be thinking like that, much less give in to the impulse to say it.
“Your dad’s right, sweetheart. You are too valuable to get lost in this grief. If you can’t let him go yet, that’s fine. Take the time you need, but you can’t lose yourself to this. You’re too important.” A tear made its way down her cheek. Then the big guns. “What if he does come back? You need to have enough of yourself left to come back to.”
“Do you think he’ll come back?”
It was clear from her expression that Mom instantly regretted her choice of words. “I do think he will come back. I can’t promise he will be willing to be in a relationship again, but I think you’ll see him again.”
“That’s what his grandma thinks too.”
Dad’s voice hardened. “I can’t imagine being that poor woman. Getting her grandson back only to lose him again. Brett’s selfishness is astonishing.”
Part of me wanted to jump to his defense, but it felt good to have someone else be angry at him too.
“I can’t give up on him.”
Mom reached out, clasped my hands, and ignored Dad’s contradictory expression. “We aren’t saying you need to give up on him, Finn. Just that you need to be able to live your life, even if he isn’t here right now.”
“I have to find him.”
Another moment of silence.
“Will you still come to the shop with Cynthia and me tomorrow?”
“Yes, Mom.”
You sure about that? You might be a little tired out from whatever you discover in the back rooms of the Square tonight.
Nine
FINN DE MORISCO
I’d alreadymade three different pastries. I couldn’t remember ever working so efficiently before. I was in the zone! The shredded chicken, fennel, feta cheese, and cherries had been stuffed into a stromboli-like concoction within forty minutes of my arrival. Unlike Mom and Cynthia, I didn’t feel the need to stick with strictly Mexican-inspired creations. They were still my favorite, but all the experiences I’d had at culinary school made it impossible to not travel the world via flour, eggs, and sugar. Mom would say the things I come up with are from another world entirely. The following batch of turmeric, coriander, and cashew biscotti was still filling Panaderia with a spicy warmth. Just for comfort’s sake, and because it was Mom’s favorite, I whipped up a triple batch of pan dulce. Having shoved the last pan into the oven, I wiped my flour-dusted hands on my yellow apron and elbowed my way out the swinging doors carrying the most recent tray of golden pan dulce into the front room of the bakery.
“Even an hour late, you’ve managed to nearly outdo your sister and me this morning.” Mom took the cooled tray from my hands and began transferring the little buns into the glass display case. “Those cherry chicken things sold out within thirty minutes. I told them we’d do them for a special next Wednesday morning.”
“Sounds good to me, Mom. I’m glad they went over.”
She stretched out her arm and placed a warm, soft hand on my cheek. “It’s good to see you smile, sweetheart.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond, and judging from the moisture building behind her eyes, it was probably a good idea not to say anything. I hated myself for making it where simply showing up to work was an answer to my mother’s prayers—an hour late or not.
The alarm had gone off at three. We typically roll into Panaderia around four to get ready for the morning rush at six. However, I’d hit snooze about ten times. I’d stayed up for hours battling the voice about going to the damned Square. Maybe battling myself more than the voice. By the time I’d gotten out of bed, I’d already decided to break my promise and not come in to the bakery with every smack of the button. Too little sleep, too much drama.
Looking around the bright little space, I was glad I’d forced myself to keep my word. Mom had been right. Baking was healing. My brain was lost to the countless ingredient combinations, the puff of flour dust in the mixer, the kneading of the dough under my knuckles. There were no vampires, no drug-loving fairies, no gorgeous quasi demons—only baking soda, spice, and butter. Perfect. Even the voice had been silent for once. If I looked in the mirror, I might actually see a Finn I would recognize.
Panaderia was the anomalous edifice of the de Morisco clan. Mom and Dad’s dated lime-green-and-yellow kitchen, Caitlin’s flamboyantly gothic Lair, and the absolute cacophony of color and mess of Dad’s Mascarada were the normal, the expected. Even Christina and Ricky’s Taberna de las Brujas was like a madhouse when it was packed with customers, which was every night. Mom and Cynthia’s collaboration of white on white, chrome, and glass made Panaderia shine like a flawless diamond among gaudy rhinestones. What easily could have been cold and harshly modern felt warm, inviting, and pristine. The same could also be said for the kitchen just behind the swinging stainless steel doors, at least when I wasn’t the one who had been baking.
As if reading my mind, Cynthia’s soft, low voice slipped in beside me. “It’s nice to have you back, little brother. The kitchen has been so clean I was beginning to wonder if we were really running a bakery at all.”
“Back for a minute, and already the merciless teasing begins!”
She flushed and grinned back at me. “Don’t tell Mom, but I like those biscotti you made earlier. They were wonderful with chai tea.”
“Oh, I’m gonna tell her, and tell her you said you think I’m a better baker than she is.”
“Don’t you dare!” She swatted my arm and then started consolidating partially filled trays in the case.
