“That matters,” I admit. And I hate that too. Hate that part of me is taking notes instead of building walls.
I flip the phone over in my hand once more. My thumb hovers over the screen. I don’t type. I don’t respond. I don’t give him anything yet.
Not yes.
Not no.
Just… not yet.
“Tomorrow,” I say, because I need something solid to grab onto. “We rest. We bake for ourselves. For our regulars. No phones. No comments. No explanations. We’ll do a delivery round.”
“Ok,” Gwen says immediately, like she’s been waiting for instructions.
“And Saturday…” My chest tightens again. “We’ll see when we get there.”
Gwen turns her head fully, then really looks at me. There’s a question in her eyes, but also trust. “I’ll be nearby.”
I manage a small, broken smile. “I know.”
I turn off the last light. The bakery goes fully dark, the way it’s supposed to when it’s closed. When it’s resting. When it’s mine again.
We lock up in silence. The deadbolt slides home with a familiar, comforting weight. Outside, the street is quiet. A delivery truck rumbles past somewhere down the block. Life continues. Of course it does. It always does, no matter how personal the implosion feels.
At home, I don’t sleep well. I drift. I surface. I dream in fragments. Flour on my hands. Leo’s voice saying my name. My father’s laugh echoing off tiled walls that no longer exist.
In the morning, Gwen shows up with groceries and zero tolerance for self-pity. We bake. We don’t talk about the stream. We don’t talk about comments, headlines, or opinions from people who have never set foot in my kitchen.
We make bread.
My hands finally start to shake somewhere around the third batch, when the dough comes together exactly the way it should, and I realize I’m still here. That Sunrise & Salt didn’t collapse overnight. That the thing Rex Chen thought he could buy is still breathing.
We load the bread we baked into the milk crates just after noon.
Gwen snaps the bungee cord tight in the back of the van. “Ok,” she says, testing it with a shake. “Henderson first or Calder first?”
“Henderson,” I say, already climbing into the driver’s seat. “If we don’t go there first, he’ll be offended.”
“True,” Gwen laughs.
Mr. Henderson lives three blocks from the bakery in a narrow brick house with a porch that tilts slightly left, like it’s perpetually leaning in to hear gossip. His mailbox has been repainted so many times that it looks textured, and the wind chime by the door plays exactly one note no matter how hard the breeze hits it.
I knock the way we always do. Three quick taps. Pause. Two more.
The door opens immediately.
“Well,” Mr. Henderson says, beaming through the screen door, cardigan buttoned wrong, eyebrows doing whatever they want. “If it isn’t my favorite criminals.”
“Bread smugglers,” Gwen corrects, stepping inside like she owns the place. Which, functionally, she does. “We brought the good stuff.”
His eyes light up as we bring the crate in. “Sourdough?”
“And rye,” I say. “Plus, a baguette that got… ambitious.”
He nods gravely. “Ambition should always be encouraged. Even when it backfires.”
The house smells like lemon polish and old paper. Jazz hums softly from the radio, cutting in and out with static like it’s embarrassed to be heard. Mr. Henderson insists we sit. He always insists. He always wins.
He pours tea we don’t have time to drink and sets the bread on the table like it’s something sacred.
