Chapter 28

28

Annika

Somehow, in the last two weeks, my life has turned completely inside out again .

Bailey's refusing to talk to any of us and has been crying in her room since we got home from the softball game, but she made me promise I'd have the high school gym open in the morning so she could play volleyball with her friends.

But not Adriana. She doesn't want to invite Adriana.

And I feel awful for missing the signs earlier that she needed a break.

Mama and Roger are sitting on the front porch, where he's describing the rising new moon to her.

And while I'm trying to rearrange my calendar for tomorrow and figure out how the hell I'm going to fill Bailey's shoes at the bakery, especially since my last remaining candidate for full-time baker canceled her interview, I also need to figure out who, exactly, I need to talk to so that Bailey can play volleyball at the high school, and how she's getting there, and how Mama's getting to her eye doctor follow-up, my phone is blowing up with text messages from Grady.

Sorry about Pop and the parrot and my goat this afternoon. And also between our games. And after our games, which you don't know about, but which I need to apologize for anyway. Got a minute?

Hey, I know you're busy, but this is important.

Are you in bed?

Shit, you're in bed, aren't you? Sorry. Just wanted you to know what I overheard tonight—it's about Minnika.

The last one does it.

Minnika .

It's what he used to call Bailey. Mini-Annika.

I pop out the front door and tell Mama I forgot to make sure we have enough cupcake wraps to get us through this weekend— more lying , dammit—and when Roger assures me he'll help her inside if she gets tired before I'm back, I head off at a fast clip toward Duh-Nuts.

It's a five-block walk, so not far, but my stomach is in knots and my legs and arms and even my elbows are whining that bed is in the other direction.

As soon as I'm well out of earshot, I dial Grady.

"Hey. I didn't wake you, did I?"

That voice.

It's calming and soothing and deep and strong and reliable, and everything I need right now, even though I shouldn't let him be my world.

I have too many other worlds I'm running.

"No, I wasn't sleeping. I was?—"

I pause with the words rearranging my calendar on my lips, because that's not what I was actually doing.

"I was just trying to not completely and totally lose my shit because I'm tired and worried and overworked and everything I do is a disaster," I whisper.

"Where are you?"

"No. No, don't come. You can't. And I'm fine. I'll be fine. I just need—I need—a minute. I need a minute to let myself fall apart, and then I'll be fine."

"Bailey's taking tomorrow off?"

I freeze in front of the mechanic shop at the end of the bakery block. "How did you know that?"

"Overheard her talking at the game."

He's hiding something. He's using that evasive tone he used to use when he didn't want to tell me that he suddenly had a cousin's birthday party he had to go to when I'd finished putting my weekend calendar together and found three free hours between work and softball where we could head over to the preserve and go hiking.

"What?" I demand while I pick up my pace as I get closer to Duh-Nuts. "What did you hear? What's going on? What aren't you telling me?"

"Nothing. It can wait."

"Grady," I growl while I shove my key into the back door.

"She said you got the high school gym open for her to play volleyball. She was looking for friends to join her. That's it."

"Friends to— you saw her with the boy . Who is he? Where's he from? What's his name? Did he make a pass at her? Did he stare at her boobs? I'm gonna kill him. Except I don't have time to kill him, because there's not a single fucking spare five minutes in the next four days, and I don't know who to call at the high school to get the gym open like I promised her, and I have to miraculously pull donuts and cinnamon rolls out of my ass in the morning and somehow put out an ad for a baker to just materialize, but not anywhere that the reporter from Virginia Blue Magazine might see, because Bailey needs a day off and there's no fucking point to Mama going to see the eye doctor tomorrow because they'll say the same thing. We're sorry, Ms. Williams. It's permanent. But can we poke and prod a little in the name of research? You know what? No. No . They can't fucking turn my mother into a science experiment, because she has a life to live and just because she can't see doesn't mean she can't fucking live it."

"Annie Workman," he says.

" What ?"

"Annie Workman. She's the high school volleyball coach. I'll shoot her a note. Does Bailey need a ride?"

" You can't do me favors in public ."

"Got a cousin on the volleyball team. I'll tell Annie it's for her, and I'll tell my cousin if she breathes a word of this to anyone, that I'll make sure she's pulled over for speeding, which will mean she doesn't get to drive anymore, because her parents are strict like that. Whoops. Sent the text. Already done. Next problem. You. You're exhausted. You need to go to sleep."

"I can't go to sleep. I have to have a montage."

He laughs, and god , it helps. "Annika. You can't montage your way to being a master baker overnight."

" Do not take my dreams from me ."

"God, I missed you," he says on a sigh, and I feel the sentiment all the way from my heart to my lady bits to the tips of my toes.

I slide onto Mama's stool at the clean worktable and let my head drop onto the cool surface. "You remember."

"A man doesn't forget being told he can't montage his way into a woman's pants."

I laugh, because I told him that in the good days.

Before graduation.

Back when he was convinced he could have all the women in the world if he figured out a way to pump iron while he was experimenting in his dad's restaurant kitchen. I'll lift weights while the cookies are baking, and run while the bread is rising, and by next week, I'll be so buff even the teachers will be falling all over me .

He was so freaking adorable.

And because I'm me , I'd gone on a rant about movie montages giving us unrealistic expectations for how long it takes to go from hockey player to figure skater or sheltered daddy's girl to amazing sexy dancer, because we had all of four movies at home and Mama's two favorites were Dirty Dancing and The Cutting Edge .

And he'd just grinned at me and said, Yeah? Well, watch me do it .

Not eight days later, he'd walked into school in a muscle costume, announced he'd montaged himself into a beefcake, and the lunch ladies gave him free cookies that he pretended to like as well as he liked his own baking.

"Annika. Go to bed. Get some sleep. You can't take care of anyone if you're not taking care of you ."

"Watch me." I stifle a yawn.

This worktable is weirdly comfortable. My face is starting to stick to it, but I don't need that side of my face. It'll be fine.

"You could sell burnt cotton candy and the people in Sarcasm would buy it. Get sleep. Cancel your mama's appointment. Ask that plumber dude to take Bailey to the high school. And sell the fuck out of your chocolate chip cookie bricks tomorrow."

I smile as my eyes drift shut. Five minutes. Just five minutes of rest, and I'll be fine. I yawn again. "I need to order ice cream ingredients."

"Already on their way for delivery tomorrow. Where are you?"

"You can't order ingredients for me. And Bailey already teased that we're making chocolate chip cookie donuts and doing a chocolate chip cookie blowout for National Chocolate Chip Cookie Day, which I didn't even know was a thing, and the last time I tried to make chocolate chip cookies I set off four smoke alarms and my roommates had an intervention. With charts. They had an intervention with Annika Cooking Disaster Charts ."

"You know the reason you can't bake?"

"Because I'm a walking disaster?"

"No, it's because you're so good at everything else. This is balance."

"Couldn't I have balance where I suck at hula-hooping or juggling? I could live with that balance."

"Annika. Go to bed ."

"I can't hear you."

"About four years ago, Cooper got us all tickets to the Fireballs game."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Hush. Just listen. So, he got us tickets. Home game. Me, Ma, Dad, Pop…"

I don't understand what this story is about, but I listen while he talks about driving to Copper Valley. Finding their seats. Buying hot dogs.

Nothing happening through four innings.

And I don't really care who won.

Odds are good, it wasn't the Fireballs.

But Grady's talking.

And his voice is so nice.

Calm.

Steady.

Hypnotic.

He's putting a warm, pleasant buzz in my whole body.

And the last thing I remember is thinking that I'm drooling on the worktable, and that I really don't care.