I hug my towel tighter and sit down on the closed toilet. “She might not want to talk to me.”
Mom spits and rinses, wincing at the loud groaning from the pipes. “Maybe she doesn’t, but you should at least try to apologize directly to her.”
I give her my most pitiful look.
“She works at that café next to the museum, right? The one you said has the most amazing cinnamon roll things?”
“Who has amazing cinnamon rolls?” Goldie squeezes into the bathroom, yawning. Another problem with this old house—the plumbing is loud enough to wake the dead, so even my little sister is getting up at the crack of dawn now. “I want cinnamon rolls.”
Mom and I exchange a glance through the mirror, and my rounded, threatening eyes do nothing to keep the words from spilling out of her mouth.
“There’s this special bakery in town that Lili knows. Maybe she can take you this morning.”
There’s no shutting this down once Goldie is on board. Hersweet tooth is legendary, and even though I try to explain that morning buns are more like croissants than cinnamon rolls, the fact that they’re frosted has her determined. And my fate sealed.
“Don’t suppose you want to go somewhere else with a shorter line?” I say to my sister outside of the Petticoat Café. They’ve only just opened, but the line of people queued up outside already numbers in the dozens.
Goldie sneers at the suggestion. “You said that the morning buns here are better than anything we used to get from Desert Bloom Bakery.”
I had said that.
I sigh, glancing back and forth between the end of the line and inside the shop. I don’t see Eryn at the counter, but she’s the only one who makes the morning buns, which means she must be in the kitchen. I gnaw on my lip.
“What’s wrong with you?” Goldie asks.
“I’m trying to decide how much of a coward I am.”
“You’re not a coward.” She says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. And since I really want that to be true, I nod.
“Okay, then are you all right to wait in line for us for a few minutes? I kinda have to go talk to somebody around back.”
The look she gives me is heavy with suspicion, but eventually she nods too. “Fine, but if you try to blow me off, I will make you be my servant fortwo weeksbefore I forgive you.”
I feel like she’s only half kidding as I circle around the side of the building. Eryn once told me to knock on the back door of the café anytime the line out front was too long and she’d slip me whatever I wanted herself. I know this isn’t what she meant, not atall, but I’ve been delaying this long enough. A wooden door, faded to a weathered blue, stands before me, its surface rough beneath my fingertips. I lift my hand and rap my knuckles gently against the wood.
She deserves my apology, even if I don’t deserve her forgiveness.
A few moments later, Eryn pushes the door open. She’s smiling at first, her eyes bright and warm, but that all dims as soon as she sees me.
She has a light dusting of flour on her cheek, the fine powder catching the sun, and a streak of frosting smudging her apron. She’s clearly been here since long before I even stirred awake, pouring her energy into her recipes, probably trying not to think about Wren, or me, or the mess we left in our wake.
And now I’ve brought it all back to her doorstep—literally.
“Please don’t shut the door,” I say quickly, though I know that Eryn isn’t the type to slam doors, no matter how much she might want to.
She exhales, a deep, measured breath, and calls inside to someone, her voice steady as she instructs them to start laminating the next batch of dough, whatever that means. The sounds of the bustling kitchen fade as she steps out into the warm morning air with me and swings the door shut behind her with a soft click. “I have to be quick.”
I nod, her distant tone squeezing my throat tight, threatening to crush the words I’ve rehearsed over and over. I remind myself that I can’t fall apart now, not like I did in the shower. Breaking down in front of her would be gross and unfair, forcing her into the role of comforter when she’s the one who’s been hurt.
I start talking before I feel ready, the words tumbling out rawand unfiltered. Nothing planned, nothing careful or articulate. “I’m not looking for forgiveness, but I need you to know how sorry I am. You were the last person I ever wanted to hurt, and I only wish I could go back and be half the friend to you that you were to me.”
Eryn dips her head forward and her hair slips free, partially concealing her face. It’s a small motion that feels like a barrier she’s trying to put between us. “Why did you do it?” she asks, her voice steady but strained.
I blink rapidly at her, not expecting a direct question at all. Especially when I don’t have an answer. “I don’t know. I only know I shouldn’t have.”
“I thought you were my friend.”
“I was,” I say, a hint of pleading breaking through before I can push it back.
