There are still other customers in the bakery, though, so instead, I try to be pleasant. “Need anything else?” I ask through my gritted, smiling teeth.
Hunter comes closer—too close. He’s almost behind the counter with me. Too tall and smelling too good and being toobrilliant. “I heard what you said,” he says, voice pitched low so only I can hear him.
I stiffen. “Excuse me?”
“Youareneeded, Olivia.”
Ohperfect. He heard me mutterthat?
“I need you to collaborate with me,” he says, “if we’re going to turn this bakery into the success it should be.”
I inhale slowly, but no amount of deep breathing can keep from me snapping, “Are you serious right now? This bakeryisa success. It has been since before you were born, and it will be long after you walk out that door! So thanks for the offer tocollaborate, but I don’t need you telling me all the things you think I’ve done wrong and changing everything so you can claim to be some hero who came in here and rescued us when we don’t need it.”
Hunter’s eyebrows lift; the two remaining people looking at the shelves of treats pause and glance at each other uncertainly.
“Olivia!” Farmor rebukes from where she stands by the kitchen, her eyes wide.
The back of my neck breaks out in a sweat, and my hands turn clammy on the pen I’m clutching from the last customer who handed it back to me. “I need to—” I can’t come up with anything fast enough, and let the sentence hang as I shove past Hunter, who hastily backs out of the way, and rush for the swinging doors that will allow me to escape into the empty kitchen.
After a couple of minutes of standing stiffly by the sink, waiting for a scolding that doesn’t come, I finally exhale, take off my apron, hang it up, turn—and nearly jump out of my skin.
Farmor stands a few feet away like some sort of seventy-five-year-old Swedish stealth ninja, her hands on her hips and head cocked. “All right, tell me what is going on.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She gives me alook. “Why does Hunter helping us make you so angry?”
“It doesn’t.”
“You might not want to talk about it, but don’t lie to me,sötnos.” Age sketches its story in gentle strokes across her familiar face, the poetry of years evident in every crease. But her eyes are as bright and clear as ever, the pale blue of a sky washed by rain—and they see far too much.
“I’m sorry.” I can’t hold her gaze, dropping mine as I step over to the industrial sink to wash my hands. Even with my mind whirling,it’s second nature to be cautious about the germs from interacting with customers. With all the immunosuppressants I’m on, I can’t afford to get sick.
“I’ve never seen you act the way you do with him.” Farmor watches as I scrub my skin until it turns red.
“I ... I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry for making a scene with myreplacement.” I finally turn off the sink and use a paper towel to dry my hands.
Trying to put into words the way I’m feeling right now feels like standing at the base of a mountain—one I’m not ready to climb. How do I explain that this bakery is my life, that I literally chose my degree so I would be valuable to our family business—but I’ve clearly failed? And now, watchingHunter, of all people, come in and undermine—and outshine—all my years of effort in a matter of sixty minutes ... It’s not something I can articulate succinctly. It’s not something I want to talk aboutat all. Ever.
“We’re notreplacingyou,” she says gently. “We’re expanding our team. It never hurts to get a fresh viewpoint.”
“Clearly.”
Farmor sighs. “Can you try to give him a chance? He has some good ideas. And if they help the bakery ...”
The skin on my fingertips and palms is red and tender from being overzealous with the hand washing, but it’s my heart that feels raw. The thing is, Iknowhis ideas are good, and of course I want the bakery to do better—to have lines out the door and our kitchen overflowing with special orders. The issue is havingHunterbe the answer to our problems. The issue is realizing that in this one piece of my life where I feel I ammeantto make a difference, it turns out I’m still not enough. “I know, Farmor—and Iamtrying. But he’s a different person around you and Mom. When you’re not there, he’s rude and judgmental and ... andmean!”
“Your mom seems to think he only acts that way because he is attracted to you, and you make him nervous.”
I groan. Notthisagain. “Maybe if we were in fourth grade—where it’s the social norm to torture your crush.”
“You don’t believe he’s attracted to you?”
“No! Because we’renotin elementary school, and being a jerk is not how a man shows a woman he’s interested.”
Farmor sighs, folding her arms over her chest. There’s a long pause, then, “I’ll admit, he seems like a very nice young man to me. But if he’s treated you otherwise ... I’m sorry to hear it.” She shakes her head, rueful. “Will you at least try to reach a truce of sorts with him? For the sake of our bakery?”
You haven’t really given me a choice, I think. But having her call itourbakery cuts through my anger, exposing a layer of fetid guilt beneath. I swallow. “I’ll try, Farmor.” Her mouth opens to say more, so I hurry to add, “I need to go. I’ve been here since the crack of dawn, and I have a headache.”
