I’m reaching for my purse when Farmor asks, “Olivia, why are you so afraid of love?”
I barely resist throwing my hands in the air. “Telling you I don’t think Hunter is attracted to me doesn’t mean I’mafraidof love.” I pull the cross-body bag over my head and fish in it for my car keys.
“I’m not referring to Hunter. I’ve wondered this for some time.”
“Then why are you bringing it up now?” My head already hurts. I don’t need to rip open any wounds in my heart as well.
She crosses the space between us. “I’ve learned that when we feel a nudge to speak, especially when the timing feels all wrong, it’s often because the words matter most in that moment, even if they’re not easy to hear. And I have ignored this nudging too many times to let you walk away again without finding the courage to finally say something.” Farmor cups my face, her soft, smooth hand tender on my cheek. She smells of her favorite subtle lotion mixedwith a hint of butter and brown sugar. Even after her hand drops back to her side, her eyes don’t leave mine. “My sweet girl, you used to at least date, to allow yourselfhope. Now you don’t even do that. You’ve made this bakery your whole life, when I only ever wanted it to be something you loved. It was never meant to be your entire existence. You’re shutting yourself away,sötnos, and I’m afraid for you. For the loneliness you’re choosing.”
Not even the musical lilt of her Swedish accent can soften the blow of her words. They spear through me, sharp and true, striking bone. For half a second, I consider bringing up Austin, how I even let him kiss me. Until I remember I still haven’t responded to the text he sent this morning, asking me out again. My protest dies at the back of my throat, half choking me.
Farmor’s gaze is relentless. Piercing. She’s silent now, waiting.
I’m not closing myself off. I’mcautious—and how could I not be? What my mom went through after my dad’s death still haunts me, stalking me through my nightmares, a shadow I refuse to acknowledge that lingers in the corners of our lives. I’ve seen up close what happens when the life you dream of together is ripped away all too soon, blown up in your faces, and you’re left holding only ashes where love once burned. I’ve lived inside the abyss that can swallow a person whole as the shattered scraps of your heart have to somehow find a way to keep beating when you don’t want to face another day without the love of your life.
Except, in my case,Iam that bomb—waiting to detonate and blast apart every life that touches mine. If anyone everwerewilling to take that chance on me, how could I consign them to that fate—knowingly?
Farmor touches my arm, drawing my attention away from the keys I’m unconsciously clenching in my closed fist.
“My beautiful Olivia, promise me you’ll keep trying. To at least give yourself achanceto find love. You deserve happiness.” MySwedish grandmother smooths back a flour-streaked strand of my hair.
I have no idea why she felt thenudgeto bring this up today, when my defenses are weakened, my armor already punctured from the lunchtime meeting with Hunter. I clench my teeth against the dark tumble of memories that threaten to rise and drag me backward through the years to that terrible, pulsing darkness I work so hard to never,everlet myself remember. I wrestle the things I can’t say back into their holding place until I finally manage to reply. “Everyonedeserveshappiness. But we don’t get to decide who actually ends up with it, do we?”
Farmor flinches, her hand faltering.
Shame, bitter as lemon rinds, coats my mouth. Even if her timing sucks, Farmor doesn’t deserve my vitriol. “I’m sorry, that was ... I’m just ... I should go.” A surge of anxiety rushes up my body, crashing over me with a wave of nausea, pricking my heart into a gallop.
As I shoulder my way through the swinging doors out of the kitchen, Farmor calls after me, “Losing your father and my Anders were the hardest moments of my life. But knowing their deaths made you afraid to love is almost worse.”
The ridges of my car key dig into the palm of my hand as I let the doors fall shut behind me. I rush through the bakery, ignoring the look of concern my mother shoots me—but can do nothing about since she’s assisting a customer—and somehow manage to make it to my car before the panic attack hits.
8.
Iwork out almost every day, and everyone knows it’s for my health. My mom, Farmor, Talia, even Lou, all watch, tracking how often I go, how hard I push. Their eyes, their whispers, their clutched hands all repeat a silent refrain:Be careful, be careful, be careful.
It’s the mantra of every beat of my heart.
But not even this new heart can erase the pain the last one held. Nor can it fill in the dark chasm that still threatens to gape open and swallow me whole when I least expect it.
So Idopush harder than I’m told. I go more often than I technically need to for the medical tests on my heart function. It’s theotherstuff that drives me here so often.
But not even an hour of cardio and weights is enough this time. I go home shaky and clammy and still feeling far too close to the edge.
The near-scalding spray of the shower at home can’t burn the despair away either, and the lure of a new book doesn’t push the darkness from my mind. I attempt several tries of reading the first chapter, but my mind is still racing my heart for most-out-of-control organ. I stare at the words on the page, but all I see is the look of shock in my dad’s eyes—thehorror and agony contorting his face—as he knelt on the sand at the beach, holding his piece of birthday cake right before he collapsed.
I snap the book shut, thump it down on my dresser, then flop back on my bed.
I have another unanswered text from Austin, letting me know he has tickets to a Suns game for tomorrow night, and several more texts from Talia, telling me he stopped by her desk twice to ask if I’ve said anything to her about our date. (Which she also reports istotallyunlike him—to care what I thoughtandto ask me out on a second date at all, let alone so quickly.)
My mind whirls faster and faster, spinning through the last two days—and everything from long before that I’m desperate to ignore.
My heart rate is too high. Andnothingis working to make it all juststop.
The kitchen. When all else fails, I bake. And when I’m sick of baking (such as after a long, early-morning shift at Konditori), I cook. For the first time since Farmor’s words sent me spiraling, I start to calm as I pull ingredients out of cupboards and the fridge to make chicken piccata and mashed potatoes.
I turn on Frank Sinatra and let him croon away my anxiety as I fall into the rhythm of slicing, dicing, peeling, and mixing. I lose track of time until the kitchen is fragrant with sautéed garlic and onions, the citrus steam of seared lemon slices, and sizzling chicken. I’m so lost in the process when my phone rings that I startle and nearly drop the butcher knife.
I glance at the screen and see a picture of me and Talia—one year after my heart transplant, when we were collegeroommates, arms slung over each other’s shoulders. We’re wearing matching ASU T-shirts and shorts, our legs long and tan from a spring break trip to Puerto Vallarta, where her abuela is from. That was also the year her parents announced they had stayed together only for her and were getting a divorce now that she had moved out and was an adult.
