I consider texting my mom but then set the phone back down without unlocking it. If I text her at two thirty in themorning, she’ll panic that something is wrong with me. I have no choice but to trust that this time, she’ll keep her word. With a sigh, I wipe the sweat off my forehead, flip my damp pillow over, and lie down again to try to go back to sleep.
12.
Days pass in a blur, a hazy fever dream of hospital bedside vigils, a few rushed hours in the bakery—making barely enough Swedish pastries to reopen Konditori for limited hours—and some semidelirious hours of sleep in my bed every night.
Farmor remains unchanged, and the bakery’s books grow a little more grim every day. Even though we take turns leaving the hospital to bake (neither of us willing to leave her there alone), it’s not enough, and we don’t have—nor can we afford—extra staff to keep it open for normal hours. With each day that passes in this pseudolife we now live, my exhaustion seeps deeper within me, settling into my bones—my skin stretched thin over too much fear and stress for one body to contain.
The only pinprick of light in all the overwhelm is that ever since the night Hunter waited in the hospital to help me, we’ve settled into a cautious truce—a cruel irony since that was the very thing Farmor asked me to consider before she collapsed. Regardless of the tragic impetus, there’s a hesitant cordiality between us ... not quite friendship but at least notthe resentful cohabitants we were before her stroke. I’m wary of trusting the reprieve in his rudeness; I handle him with the caution I would a rolled porcupine, bracing for the moment his quills will come back out to pierce me.
When I stumble into the condo one night, sometime after eleven, bleary-eyed, exhaustion throbbing through my body like a wound, he’s sitting on the couch, lamplight softening the angles of his face and blurring the brush of stubble along his jaw.
“Hey.” The low rasp of his voice does something to my stomach.
“Late night?” I manage to make my voice sound normal.
“Yeah.” He rubs two fingers in a small circle on his temple. “Any change with your farmor?”
“No.”
Before I can go up the stairs and collapse into bed, he surprises me by moving beyond the usual small talk.
“Have a sec?” he asks.
I pause with my hand on the banister. “Uh, sure?”
“I know you’re tired, so I’ll try to be quick. But I have something I’ve been wanting to show you.”
My stress-addled brain can’t be certain, but Ithinkthat means he wants me to come over by him. So I do. On strangely shaky legs. From exhaustion, like he said, obviously.
Hunter’s hazel eyes are warm in the lamplight, the amber and green threads darker than usual in the muted glow. There’s an eagerness in his expression that takes me off guard, causing my heart to fumble a beat.
“I’ve been working on a few ideas for the bakery that I think could get a big response. I put together some spreadsheets detailing—”
“The bakery?” I cut in, baffled. “That’s what you want to talk about?”
Hunter glances up from the small stack of papers he’d been reaching for on the table between us. I notice what looks like a color-coded pie graph on the top sheet out of the corner of my eye.
“Well, yeah.” The gleam in his eyes dims. “I know you and your mom are doing what you can to keep it open right now, but all of this is going to cause a hit to business. I thought it might be useful to get some extra marketing and advertising going to help drive business up for the hours you are open. Then your profits won’t suffer more than they already are.”
A swell of anger burns away some of my exhaustion. “With what money? I’ve done what I can with the little extra we had to work with for the last couple of years. But now there’sreallynothing I can use for any additional advertising.” After having it closed for the first two days, and limited hours ever since, I’m praying we’ll have enough merely to cover all our expenses and payroll—let alone more marketing.
“I figured this situation would cause a decrease in profit, which is why the ideas I’m pitching are super affordable. If you’d look—”
“No.”
Hunter’s mouth snaps shut.
“I can’t do this right now. I’m sorry. I’m sure your ideas are great, but we can’t even affordsuperaffordable right now.” I swallow back the admission I almost spilled:I don’t know if I’m going to be able to pay for the flour shipment next week unless I take a pay cut.
He chews on his bottom lip as if he wants to say something else, but instead, he only nods. “Okay. I’ll leave thesehere ... in case you ever want to glance over them.” Then he slaps both his hands against his thighs and stands, tall and shadowed across the table from me. “Better let you get to bed.” There’s a shortness in his voice, and he won’t meet my eyes anymore.
I’ve hurt him, I think. But I’msotired. Stressed. Overwhelmed.Scared. Farmor’s pale, frighteningly still face flashes through my mind. “Yeah. It’s been another long day.”
Neither of us says anything else. I turn and hurry toward the stairs.
When I hear the front door open and close a little later, I exhale the breath I’m holding and let my head drop back against the wall of my room.
I jerk awake before my alarm the next morning with a pounding headache from a slew of nightmares, which I, thankfully, can’t really remember this time. I assume the headache is from the lack of restful sleep and all the stress that has invited anxiety to become my constant companion.
