This croissant is a win.
The fact that we are still open is a win.
When I open my eyes, Gwen is watching me with that satisfied look she gets when she successfully tricks me into taking care of myself.
“What?” I speak.
She shrugs. “Nothing. You looked less murder for five seconds.”
I slide her a second croissant. “Eat,” I tell her.
Her eyebrows lift like she is genuinely touched.
Then she ruins it by saying, “Wow. Tess Bennett. Generosity. Mark the calendar.”
“Shut up,” I laugh.
She takes the croissant anyway, smiling. Working with Gwen has been the most joyful part of owning the bakery.
Gwen scrubs sheet pans while singing along to the radio, loud enough that I can hear her from the office.
It is not good singing.
It is enthusiastic, defiant singing. Like she is daring the universe to criticize her.
I am in the back office, tiny, cramped, barely an office, going over invoices and scheduling. I have a spreadsheet open, and my stomach tightens automatically.
Numbers are always the part that threatens to kill the joy. Dough is honest. Dough tells you what it needs. Numbers just sit there and accuse you.
Gwen knocks on the doorframe with her elbow because her hands are wet.
“Hey,” she says. “You good?”
“Fine,” I lie.
I look at her. Flour on her cheek again. Sweat on her forehead. Her apron stained like a map of the day.
She is tired too. She is just better at hiding it behind jokes.
At 2:40, the last customer leaves. I flip the sign to CLOSED.
Gwen locks the front door with the kind of finality that feels like shutting the world out.
We exhale, both of us, like we have been holding our breath for twelve hours.
“This place is insane,” I say softly.
“It is,” Gwen agrees. “But it is ours.”
The same words, again, and they hit the same place in my chest.
I do not say anything for a second. Then I nod.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
Gwen pushes off the counter and stretches, her back popping loudly. She grabs her bag, tosses her apron into her locker, and pauses at the back door.
“Eat dinner,” she says.
