I turn in his arms, meeting his gaze. “How do you always know the right thing to say?”
He grins, one of his wide smiles that lights up his face. “It’s a gift. Now, let’s eat before the food gets cold. We can tackle the kitchen disaster after dinner.”
Just as I’m about to take my plate across to the table, my phone rings. I groan, seeing Donna’s number on the screen. “I should take this,” I tell Greg apologetically, setting my plate back on the counter.
“Hey, Donna, what’s up?” I try to keep my tone light despite the knot forming in my stomach again.
“Oh, Cam, I’m so sorry.” Donna’s voice comes through, sounding weak and congested. “I’ve caught that nasty flu fromJosh. There’s no way I can make it in to bake tomorrow morning.”
My heart sinks, but I force a smile into my voice. “Don’t worry about it, Donna. You just focus on getting better, okay? We’ll figure something out.”
As I hang up, the tension creeps back into my shoulders. Greg looks at me expectantly.
“Donna’s sick. She can’t bake for tomorrow. I don’t know what I’m going to do. The morning rush without fresh pastries…” I trail off, already considering the impact on our breakfast service.
“We’ll think of something, babe. Maybe we can pick up some bakery items from—”
“This is a disaster.” I’m barely listening, the stress of the week crashing down on me all at once. “First Josh, then Sarah, now Donna. It’s like the universe is conspiring against me. How am I supposed to run a successful coffee shop if I can’t even guarantee we’ll have pastries?” I snap before turning back to the kitchen counter and roughly spooning more rice onto my plate. “This is ridiculous. I can’t believe this is happening. What am I going to tell our regulars? Sorry, no muffins today because the universe hates me?”
I can feel Greg’s eyes on me as I slam the container down on the counter. He clears his throat, his voice cautious. “Cam, maybe we could—”
“What, Greg?” I whirl around to face him. My anger rises, mixing with the worry that’s been building all week. “Maybe we could what? Magically conjure up a baker at midnight? Or maybe I should just stay up all night baking myself, because that’s totally feasible with how exhausted I already am.”
As I turn back to get my plate, my elbow catches the edge of the container of fried rice. Time seems to slow as I watch it topple, spilling its contents across the floor.
“Shit!” I stand there, frozen, my hands clenched at my sides as I stare at the mess of rice and vegetables scattered across the floor. The sight of the spilled rice is the perfect metaphor for my life right now—everything’s a mess, and I have no idea how to clean it up.
Greg reaches for my hands and I look up to meet his concerned blue eyes. He rubs soothing circles on the back of my hands. “Hey, we’ll figure this out, okay? There’s probably some muffins and cinnamon rolls in the freezer. Or what if we called that bakery who used to supply the cafe? Maybe they could deliver some pastries in the morning.”
His suggestion is practical, thoughtful even, but something in me snaps. I jerk my hands away, my voice rising. “We don’t use them anymore, so why would they want to help? But that’s not the point, Greg! It’s not just about tomorrow’s pastries. It’s about everything! The coffee shop, the house renovations, the surrogacy…” Hurt flashes across Greg’s face, but I can’t stop myself. The words tumble out, harsh and biting. “You don’t get it. There’s so much going on and everything is conspiring against us.”
Before he can respond, I turn on my heel and storm from the kitchen. I need air. I need space. I need… something. Anything but the suffocating weight of disappointment crushing me. I burst through the back door onto our porch, the cold night air hitting my flushed face. The wooden planks creak under my feet as I pace, my mind racing until eventually I lean against the railing, staring out into the darkness of our backyard. The stress of the past couple of weeks crashes over me in waves, and I struggle to catch my breath.
When I’m a little more in control, I turn and catch a glimpse of Greg through the French doors. He’s crouched down on the floor, dustpan and brush in hand, carefully sweeping up the scattered grains of rice. The sight of him patiently cleaning upmy mess without complaint sends a pang of guilt through my chest. What the fuck am I doing? Why am I lashing out at him? He doesn’t deserve this.
I watch as he methodically gathers every last grain, his movements slow and deliberate. It’s so typically Greg—always there to pick up the pieces, always ready to support me, even when I’m at my worst.
The realization hits me like a punch to the gut. I’ve overreacted. Badly. I’ve let my disappointment at the lack of progress on the surrogacy front cloud my emotions.
“Damn it.” The cool night air has cleared my head, and now all I feel is shame at my outburst and how Greg bore the brunt of my frustration. I take a deep breath, steeling myself. It’s time to go back inside and face the music. I walk towards the door, eyes on Greg. He’s emptying the dustpan into the trash, his shoulders slightly slumped. The sight only strengthens my resolve. I need to apologize and make things right.
As I step back into the kitchen, Greg looks up from the floor, his eyes meeting mine. There’s no anger on his face, just concern and a hint of wariness that makes my chest ache.
“Greg, I…” I start, my voice catching. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that.”
He stands slowly, setting the dustpan aside. “It’s okay, Cam. I know you’re under a lot of stress.”
I shake my head, stepping closer. “No, it’s not okay. You don’t deserve that, babe. I just… I felt overwhelmed, and I took it out on you.”
Greg’s expression softens as he reaches out, taking my hand in his. “We’re both under pressure, Cam. Our businesses, the house renovations, and now this whole surrogacy thing… itisa lot to handle.”
My eyes start to burn. “I know. Sometimes it feels like we’re juggling too many balls, you know? And I’m terrified of dropping one.”
Greg wraps his arms wrapping around me and I bury my face in his neck, breathing in his familiar scent.
“We’re in this together,” he whispers. “We’ll figure it out, just like we always do.”
I pull back slightly, looking into his eyes. “I know you’re right.”
