I work through the morning like that. But after I slide a tray of cookies into the oven, my gaze strays to the cupboard with the strawberry ceramic jar. Something tugs at my chest—that same pull I’ve felt before. We never finished the letters.
What does the last one say?
After I set the timer, I check the door. Aisha and Audrey aren’t here yet. Impulsively, I grab the stepladder and pull it over to the counter, climb the steps, and open the cupboard.
Guilt pricks at me, but I tell it to screw off. I can open these on my own. They’re mine. I climb down with the jar, check the door again. Seeing the coast is clear, I return to the counter and dip a hand in the proverbial cookie jar.
Quickly, I flip through the stack, finding the one unopened letter—looks like it’s two pages. My heart is beating so fast, with worry, with excitement, with fear.
But I’ve come this far.
One more glance. Coast is clear. I unfold the delicate pages, my pulse kicking fast. I read the first one.
Dear Harriet,
It’s too hard like this. Every day at work, I feel the weight of the secret. Every night, I feel the pull toward you. I can’t stand hiding. I’m ready to be done sneaking around. I’m through with breaking the rules. I want to take a chance. I need to be with you. You’re worth it.
Let’s tell the captain. If he says we need to get another job, we’ll both leave. If one of us has to quit, I’ll be the one to do it. I can’t be without you. That’s the only thing I know for sure.
With all my love,
Russ
My heart cracks. It shears, breaking in two, calving like a glacier into the frozen waters. A tear rolls down one cheek, then another.
He loved her so much he wouldn’t let go. I close my eyes, try to collect my thoughts, working hard to calm my pulse. When I open my eyes, footsteps echo in the firehouse.
Shoot.
Aisha must be here already. I scramble, shoving the letters with the stack, back inside the jar, then rushing out to the front to say hello. Better to greet her there than here as I tuck away a strawberry jar.
But when I enter the bakery proper, I come face-to-face with Corbin, carrying a box.
“Hi,” he says, and he looks…awful.
Eyes dark. Bags under them. Sadness in his irises. “Are you okay?” I ask.
He gives a sad smile, then, like he’s at war with himself, he says, “Sometimes.”
My chest aches. I swallow uncomfortably, nodding in understanding. If I speak, I might cry. But I collect myself and say, “Are you working today? I didn’t see you on the schedule.”
“No. I have a game this evening. And morning skate in an hour.”
“Don’t be late,” I say, earnestly.
“I won’t,” he says, then offers me the box. It’s been opened, but the cardboard edges are tucked back in together. “The T-shirts arrived at my house. I wanted to bring them by.”
“Of course. Thank you.”
He takes them out, sets them up on the merch stand, then folds the box up to recycle. He doesn’t leave though. He looks like he wants to say something. “Mostly I just wanted to see how you were doing.”
My chest warms, and that small gesture touches me deeply. “I’m fine,” I say, right as the timer goes off.
Shit. Cookies.
I race back into the kitchen, grab an oven mitt, and pull them out before they burn. I set them down on the counter, spin around, and see Corbin staring at the cookie jar. He’s no longer holding the cardboard. Is he hurt I read one alone? Does he feel left out? Disappointed?
But when he looks up, there’s only longing in those sparkling green eyes. Maybe even hope.
