I turn away, heat crawling up my neck.
The truth is terrifyingly simple.
I wasn’t listening because I didn’t want to miss her.
And I don’t know how to come back from that.
At 3:05 p.m., the bakery is quiet. The morning rush is a distant memory. The pastry case is a wasteland of crumbs and a few sad, day-old muffins. Tess sits at the front counter with her laptop open, face tight as she stares at the week’s sales figures. The croissant disaster still lingers in her expression. She rubs her temple, a gesture I recognize as her I’m-one-invoice-away-from-a-panic-attack look.
Gwen is in the back, audibly singing along to a punk rock playlist as she preps fillings for tomorrow.
I have finally produced a dozen acceptable boules that Tess doesn’t immediately toss back into the tub. I am promoted.
I am sweeping.
I am, I decide, a very good sweeper.
I am methodical. I create neat, efficient piles of flour dust and crumbs. This is a task I can do.
The front door jingles.
Not the normal polite jingle.
This one sounds frantic. Violent.
A woman rushes in, dragging a teenage girl by the arm. The girl, maybe fifteen, wears a black T-shirt with an anime character I don’t recognize. She is visibly, profoundly upset. Her face is red and blotchy. Tears streak through dark eyeliner, leaving clean tracks down her cheeks.
“Please,” the woman says, voice cracking with desperate panic. “Please, you have to help me. I… I know you’re closing, but… It’s her birthday.”
Tess looks up from her spreadsheet. Her not-my-problem mask snaps into place instantly. “Ma’am, we close at four. What can I get you?”
“A cake,” the woman says, voice breaking. “I… I ordered a cake. From La Fantaisie Pâtisserie. For her party. It’s tomorrow at six. And they just… they just canceled. An hour ago. They said their head decorator is sick. They just… sent a text.”
The girl lets out a heartbroken sob and buries her face in her hands. She clutches her phone. On the screen is a picture of a cake.
I squint from my corner.
Oh. Wow.
It is elaborate. Three tiers. Black fondant. A complex crystalline-looking decoration on top.
Tess looks at the photo, then at the clock, then back at the woman. Her expression is polite, but firm.
“Ma’am, I’m very sorry to hear that. But we don’t do custom cakes on demand. All of our custom orders are placed a week in advance. I can sell you one of the lemon pound cakes.”
“But you don’t understand!” the woman pleads. “It’s her sixteenth birthday! It’s the one thing she asked for. It’s…” She looks at her daughter. “Maya, what’s it called?”
“It’s a Shadow Weaver cake,” Maya whispers, voice thick with tears. “From Aetheria Chronicles.”
“I… I’m sorry,” Tess says again. I see genuine regret flicker behind her exhaustion. “I can’t make it. That’s… that’s a week of work. That’s not even baking; that’s sculpture. I just… I can’t.”
The mom looks defeated. She wraps an arm around Maya, who is crying silently now, shoulders shaking. “Ok. Ok, honey, let’s just… let’s go. We’ll get ice cream.”
“It’s not the same,” Maya weeps.
They start to turn away.
Tess’s gaze drops back to her laptop as if she is forcing herself to survive the day.
