“Let me know if you set up a time so I can come.Ifyou want me there,” she adds with a knowing look.
I don’t know what I want or what to do about anything at the moment, so all I say is, “I’ll let you know,” with what I hope is a reassuring smile.
After she leaves, I’m alone in the bakery; Rebecca couldn’t come in today. I don’t see any cars pulling in, so I retreat to the kitchen and then continue on, into Farmor’s office. I should go over the numbers again, maybe even text Hunter to set up a time to brainstorm anything we can do to increase sales—that we can actually afford. Read:free.
But when I sit in Farmor’s chair, I can’t tear my eyes away from the drawer that holds her journal. It calls to me like a beacon.
I pull out the blue, leather-bound book and set it on the desk, staring at it.
My heart thuds against my rib cage. If I do this—if I read more of her journal—there’s no going back. Whatever I find in there will be a part of my story forever.
And honestly, I don’t know how many more blows I can take today after the awful things Talia said to me at the gym.
The bell over the front door rings faintly, and I suck in a breath, shove the chair back, and hurry out to help the customer.
After I finish ringing the woman up and she walks out, I stand in the middle of the bakery, full of indecision. The assault in my head resumes, a swirling maelstrom of confusion, anger, and sorrow.
Finally, my chest caves inward, and I exhale all the uncertainty out. I can’t do it, not today. Whatever is in that journal can wait until tomorrow—when it’s not within hours of my best friend telling me I’ve used my transplant as an excuse to not live life fully.
I slowly walk back to the office, pick up the journal, which feels as dangerous as a grenade waiting for the pin to be removed, and carefully set it back in the drawer.
20.
Farmor told me once that kneading dough is becoming a lost art. For centuries, the only way to have daily bread was to make it yourself—unless you were in the nobility. Girls were taught at their mother’s sides to know by the press of a finger if there was the right amount of flour or when it needed more water, to recognize the exact moment when the dough was ready to be shaped into loaves, seconds before it would be overworked instead and yield subpar bread.
Even though I spend all afternoon baking in the kitchen at Konditori, when I get back to the condo and let myself in, my mind is still in turmoil. Neither Hunter nor Lou is home from work, and I don’t want to turn on the TV.
So I make bread.
Standing at the kitchen counter in the quiet, pushing on the dough again and again and again, I finally feel a hint of calm blanketing the rushing panic I’ve been attempting to ignore all day.
As the hours march on and the initial shock of Talia’s pronouncement wears off, the depth of her accusation begins totrulysink in.
Think about Jordan. And Preston.
And for the first time in years, I let myself think of the only two men I dated for longer than a week or twoever, in my entire life.
And the longer I do, with Talia’s words coloring my memories, the sicker I feel.
I work the dough until it’s the perfect firmness and then painstakingly cut it into equal parts and shape it into loaves. Once they’re in the pans and I slide them into the oven, I have nothing left to do except clean up my mess and wait for them to bake—and to face the spinning thoughts in my head.
Jordan and Preston.
Jordan, with his blue-gray eyes that crinkled in the corners when he laughed, the way his hand engulfed mine when he held it, making me feel safe and treasured.
And, oh, Preston’s smile, his teeth so white and straight against his brown skin. The way he looked at me like he was committing every feature of my face to memory. The way he noticed so many little details about me and anything I said to him.
They’d both lasted longer than anyone else: Jordan and I dated for almost six weeks. And Preston made it two months.
But they both frightened off eventually.
Notbecause of me hounding them. Talia is wrong. I talked about my transplant and future health risks in greater depth with each of them because lighthearted dates started to turn serious. The more I admitted about my fears of the future, the less enamored either of them was with me. Butwhat was I supposed to do, keep my fears to myself? Pretend the uncertainty of my future didn’t exist?
I’ve buried all that old pain, taught myself to ignore it, to find joy and satisfaction in the bakery, in Sunday family dinners with Farmor, my mom, and my brothers, and girls’ nights out with Lou and Talia.
Until now.
The kitchen counter is not only clean but also so thoroughly disinfected I could perform surgery on it by the time I stop scrubbing—which coincides with the amount of time it takes to battle the rising tears back down. I refuse to cry over such ancient history.
