I guess I was so distracted when I was unpacking groceries and setting up the kitchen that I poured the giant bag of salt into a canister and the giant bag of sugar into an identical canister and then mislabeled them.
In a true rookie move, I didn’t bother to check either one when I was baking. I was in a hurry to get everything done and packaged and ready for the market.
I rushed, even though this was my debut event.
I rushed, even though this was the first time the good people of my new city were going to be introduced to the bakery.
The bakery that I decided to start with my entire savings and a loan from the bank.
This is what I get for thinking I could pull this off.
I hear the outside door open and someone enters the kitchen. Then I hear quiet conversation. It’s a man’s voice. Probably Daniel. Probably came to collect his wife and save her from her disaster of a friend.“Get out while you still can, Lennon,”I imagine him saying.“This woman is a mess. And nobody needs more mess in their life.”
But then there’s a soft knock on the door. “Claire?”
It’s not Daniel. It’s Miles.
My heart clenches with wretched embarrassment.
“Can you unlock the door?” he asks calmly.
I don’t move right away. This feels like such a punch in the gut. The second chance I’ve been building so meticulously is about to implode, and it’s completely my fault.
John was right.
The thought makes me feel even smaller.
My phone buzzes with a text.
Miles: Hey, let me in.
Claire: I think I need to be alone.
Miles: No, you don’t.
Claire:...
Miles: Don’t make me pick the lock.
Claire: Do you know how to pick a lock?
Miles:No.
But I’m smart and persistent. And there’s probably a YouTube video I can watch.
I stare at the words. Why is he here? Why does he care?
I reach up and unclick the lock, but I don’t open the door.
After a beat, Miles opens it and steps inside. When he sees me sitting on the floor, he closes the door, locks it, and sits down next to me, his shoulder pressed into mine, legs stretched out in front of him.
It’s like he doesn’t want his presence to be a disruption. It’s thoughtful, and it makes me want to cry again.
I sniff. My cheeks are tearstained, and I’m sure my eyes are puffy. “You know this floor is probably filthy.”
“Yep,” he says.
In the pause that follows, I wipe my cheeks with the balled-up toilet paper I’ve been squeezing in my hand.
