Heaving a sigh, I drag a hand through my hair and head back out to the deck. I slump down next to Riggs.
He shakes his head, muttering, “Good luck with that.”
“Thanks, man.”
I need it. Because I’ve got no clue what just went wrong. But I know this much—I have to fix it.
Once everyone’s gone and Charlotte’s in bed, I collapse onto the couch and tap out a text.
Corbin: I’m sorry. If you were here, I’d bring you flowers, or bake apology cookies, or give you a dress, or braid your hair. I should have asked that in a different way. Mostly, the thought of you being on the apps drove me a little insane. If I can’t have you, I don’t want anyone else to. Which is caveman of me. Sorry for being a caveman.
Mabel: You are the last thing from a caveman. Also, I don’t want anyone else to have you either.
It’s like a shot of adrenaline to the heart. Or the dick. Maybe both.
Corbin: No one else does.
Mabel: Good. But also, we promised to work through arguments like adults. How are we doing?
Corbin: I give us a ten out of ten. Like our bars, brownies, and blondies.
Mabel: Same. But you do not owe me an apology for anything.
She might be right, but I’ll probably do something anyway.
31
PERSONAL DELIVERY
MABEL
The words from the last love letter still echo in my mind.
Thank you for encouraging me when I needed it, and I sure needed it.
They’ve played on repeat for more than a week. Along with Corbin’s words to me the day I unveiled the name for the bakery, when I was feeling like the town thought I was a joke.
I believe in you.
Those four words burrowed into my heart, taking a spot right next to Grandma’s lifetime of encouragement.
It’s time to act on them, starting with the grumpy guys at the chess tables. They’re more loyal to their grocery store pastries than a toddler is to the toy truck he doesn’t want to share.
But the next morning, before Afternoon Delight opens, I head toward the town square, a pink box in one hand, and a thermos from Rise and Grind in the other.
I pass Whiskers and Kisses, decked out for Christmas with a red-and-green drawing of cats and dogs on the window and say hello to the woman who runs the sandwich shop, then to Mariah at Havenly as she’s adjusting the wreath on the door.
Soon, the town square comes into view. I draw a steadying breath as I spot the pack of retired men—a Black man, a brown man, a white man—all hunched over their concrete table with the painted-on chess board.
There’s no coffee yet. No Danishes. Like I suspected, since I have spies on the inside. Clementine at the bookstore told me they play an early morning game, then stop to grab coffee from the gas station and pastries from the grocery store before returning for another round.
Annabelle tipped me off about the flavors of Danishes they like.
And Abe—Abe, of all people, who also gets a caffeine fix from the gas station—told me how they like their coffee.
Here goes nothing.
They blew me off last time I showed up. But maybe the second time will be the charm. I cross the street, then march into the square, the Christmas tree looming in the center, with lights that’ll flicker after dark.
