“Have you told Molly and Corey?” I ask, already knowing she hasn’t.
“Nah,” Sabrina sing-songs. “They’ll just want extra pay if they have to come early. Let’s not inconvenience them.”
I can’t even form words as I look at my sister. She’s… this… ugh. Why can’t I stand up for myself? Tell her to go to hell? Or better yet, that I’m not opening sooner just because she wants a photo op.
I open my mouth to tell her exactly that. But what I actually say is, “Fine. I’ll be ready to open the doors at five.”
“Good,” she nods. “And wear something that doesn’t make you look like you’re about to burst out of it. My followers expect a certain aesthetic.”
Maxwell’s gaze slides over me again, lingering on my chest, my hips. “I don’t know,” he says, his voice dropping lower. “Some of your followers might appreciate a more… substantial presence.”
Sabrina smacks his arm, but she’s laughing. “Behave,” she says, the word a playful warning with no real rebuke. “Alina’s too sensitive for your teasing.”
It’s not teasing. We all know it’s not teasing. But I say nothing, just clutch the box tighter, wondering if my ribs might crack under the pressure of everything I’m holding in.
“Can we go now?” Sabrina asks, already heading for the door. “I’m starving, and there’s that new place on Lakeside I want to try.”
Stepping outside, the February wind cuts through me like it’s searching for bone, but I barely register the cold. Ice crystals sting my face, carried on a wind that smells like snow and exhaust.
The parking lot is nearly empty now, just three cars remaining; Sabrina’s sleek Audi, my ancient Honda with the dent in the passenger door, and the funeral director’s sensible sedan.
Sabrina heads straight for her car, Maxwell following close behind her. I trail after them, watching as he opens her door with exaggerated gallantry, his hand lingering on her lower back as she slides into the driver’s seat.
He circles to the passenger side, but before getting in, he looks back at me standing alone in the center of the parking lot, my mom’s life condensed into a cardboard box in my arms.
The February night closes around me, the cold seeping through my coat. In the distance, a church bell tolls six times as I watch them drive away. The Audi’s taillights glow red in the darkness like warning signals.
Only now, when there’s no one to see, do I finally let the tears come. They burn hot tracks down my cold cheeks, blurring the lights of the funeral home into smears of yellow against the gathering dark. My shoulders shake with the force of sobs I’ve been holding back all day.
I press my face against the box containing the last physical pieces of my mom, inhaling deeply, searching for some trace of her scent—vanilla, flour, the faint rose perfume she dabbed behind her ears even on baking days.
Mom is gone, and it’s all my fault.
The weight of her absence crashes over me, a wave that threatens to pull me under. For a moment, I let it. Just for this moment, in this empty parking lot, I allow myself to be swept away by grief that isn’t pretty or controlled or appropriate.
Then, like I’ve done every other time life has knocked me down, I straighten up. Wipe my tears. Take a deep, shaky breath of the cold Cleveland air. The box of Mom’s things tucked under one arm, I walk to my car alone, the sound of my heels on the asphalt echoing in the empty lot.
Tomorrow there will be bread to bake, customers to serve, a sister to appease, and a business to keep afloat. Tonight, I just need to make it home. One step at a time. It’s how Mom taught me to live. It’s how I’ll learn to live without her.
Cleveland looks like a ghost town as I drive home. The sidewalks are empty except for the occasional bundled figure hurrying toward warmth. The box of Mom’s things sits on thepassenger seat, and I keep reaching over to touch it at red lights, as if confirming she hasn’t disappeared completely.
I drive on autopilot; the familiar route to Little Italy is etched into my muscle memory after twenty-three years of calling it home. The streets narrow the closer I get. Old brick buildings press close to the sidewalk, restaurants with their warm golden windows spilling light onto the snow-dusted pavement.
When I turn onto our street, the bakery comes into view. Dark now, the Brewer Family Bakery sign is barely visible in the weak glow of the streetlamp. But something’s wrong. Two figures stand in front of the large display window, faces close to the glass, hands cupped around their eyes to peer inside.
My stomach tightens. I slow the car, debating whether to keep driving past and circle the block. But this is my place—Mom’splace—and the thought of strangers examining it sends a surge of protectiveness through me.
I park across the street, leaving the headlights on to illuminate the scene. The men don’t move, don’t even turn to look at my car. One is tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a dark puffy jacket. The other is shorter but stocky, a cigarette glowing between his fingers.
My hands shake as I turn off the ignition. I could call the police, but what would I say? Two men are looking through my bakery window? I’m being ridiculous. Still, my heart hammers against my ribs as I grab the box of Mom’s things and open the car door.
The cold hits me like a slap, stealing my breath. I cross the street, snow crunching beneath my heels, my legs wobbly from exhaustion and fear. As I approach, the taller man notices me and nudges his companion.
“Excuse me,” I call, my voice embarrassingly thin in the frigid air. “Can I help you with something?”
They turn fully toward me now. The tall one has a face carved from harsh angles, all sharp cheekbones and narrowed eyes. The shorter one, still dragging on his cigarette, has a scar running from the corner of his mouth toward his right ear, giving him a perpetual half-smirk.
“Just looking,” Tall One says, his voice gravelly. His eyes flick to the sign above the door, then back to me. “Is this your place?”
