Chapter 17

17

Annika

By the time Grady pulls up in front of Mama's small double-wide, I can't decide if this energy crackling between us is suppressed sexual tension, or if it's the next phase in our bakery war.

Or possibly both.

"Thank you for the ride," I tell him. I'm still soaking wet. The rain is letting up, though, so I shouldn't get too much wetter on the walk into the house. I turn to the goat. "And thank you for sharing your seat."

He tries to lick my ear.

"Sue. Not on the first date." Grady pulls the goat's head away and scratches under his chin, which makes his leg shake.

Just like a dog.

These two are so weirdly but perfectly adorable.

I climb out, and Grady does too. The sun's peeking out through the blue-gray haze covering the top of the green mountains, making the lingering raindrops glow and shine as they dive gracefully to the ground while he pulls my bike out of the bed of his truck.

"Get your phone number?" he asks me casually, like it's no big deal, but I recognize the tightening of his knuckles around the handlebars while he pretends to be testing the shocks.

He's nervous.

And it's ridiculously endearing.

"Annika?" Bailey calls from the front door. "What's he doing here?"

"Don't worry," I call back to her. "I didn't tell him all about the chocolate ketchup cookies we're making tomorrow."

Her face pauses mid-lip curl and her eyes light up. " Dammit , Annika. I told you not to tell anyone our secret magic ingredient."

"I also didn't tell him about the baked beans and the crumpets," I report.

"God, I missed you," Grady breathes. "And it's really fucking hot when you talk about horrible baked goods. It shouldn't be, but it is."

My whole body flushes, and I'm tempted to blurt out that horrible baked goods are still my specialty, but I don't yet trust everything about this situation.

I rattle my number under my breath to Grady, then thank him again and take my bike.

"Quit staring at my sister's ass," Bailey calls.

Not that I needed confirmation that he was watching me go.

My butt was tingling.

And not from the rain making my pants wet.

I barely resist turning to watch him watching me, and I don't take a full breath until I hear his truck door slam and the engine roll over.

Bailey trots around the side of the house to the shed with me. "What were you doing with him?" she hisses.

Flirting probably isn't going to win me any points with my sister.

"I got caught in the rain, and it was either take a ride or be late."

"I don't trust him."

"I know."

"He's trying to put our bakery out of business before we even get it off the ground."

Our bakery.

If it fails, I'm not just letting down Mama. I'm letting down Bailey too.

"It's not working, is it?" I say. "We can't let other people dictate our success. Only we can do that. And you, baby sister, are kicking ass and taking names in the baking department."

"Are you trying to distract me with flattery?"

"Is it working?"

"You're close. Call me a culinary genius ahead of my time."

"You're like the love child of Giada and Martha."

"But prettier?"

"Duh."

"I'm still pissed that you're fraternizing with the enemy."

I pull open the shed door and roll my bike in as the sun breaks all the way through, chasing away the afternoon rain shower. "How's Mama?"

"She accidentally reprogrammed her voice assistant to answer to Goddess of my Loins and really needs to go blow off some steam, but she doesn't think throwing a bowling ball around in her current condition will do any good."

She follows the announcement with a good swift kick to a clump of grass, and I instinctively pull her into a hug while her breath goes ragged and her shoulders tremble.

I could tell her that Mama's tough. That she'll adapt and re-learn how to do almost everything she used to, and a few months from now, we'll never remember a time that this wasn't normal.

But it won't help.

It's not helping me right now either.

"It's not fair," she whispers through a hiccup.

"When life kicks you in the balls…"

"I know. I know. Too bad for life, because you have a vagina of steel. My vagina's feeling a little bit more like an overripe kiwi though."

"Please don't ever say that again."

Her watery laugh eases the sting in my own eyes, and I squeeze her tight again.

"Don't tell Mama, okay?" she whispers.

"Naturally. You want to take her bowling?"

"Annika. We can't ."

"Don't tell me we can't anything. You know she'll still kick your ass."

"But what if she doesn't?"

"She'll still have fun. And that's the important part. Adjusting and figuring out she still can , despite the roadblocks."

Mama's always been dauntless. There's not a single roadblock that she hasn't overcome in her life, and starting as a teen mother, she's had to overcome a lot. The idea that she'll be robbed of her bravery and her joy in her mid-forties is breaking my heart, so I have to believe she'll kick being blind in the groin and come out on top in this too.

I have to.

Her mobility specialist tells me she will be able to frost cookies again someday. And probably bake, all of it, start to finish. The tools are out there to help her.

The social worker is helping us get everything lined up for her to go on disability while she's being retrained.

We can get a guide dog.

She will be able to live a full, independent life again.

But we have to give her time to learn how.

And once she's settled again, then I can stop and figure out what the future holds for me .

My phone buzzes in the zipper pocket at my waistline, and my heart gives a big ol' thump that has nothing to do with Mama, and everything to do with something else.

Hope .

And I don't want to think about what I'm hoping for.

Bailey pulls back and wipes her eyes. "Can I take your bike for a spin?" she asks.

"Wear the helmet."

"Yes, Mamika."

She dutifully snaps on the helmet and pulls my bike back out, now that the rain has stopped completely, and I head for the house. Once she's out of sight, I peek at my phone and read the text message that came in.

Testing…Master Baker here, checking in on my high maintenance friend.

I smile softly.

No shortage of ego there.

But then, there never was. Not really.

For either of us.

We both knew who we were going to be.

A new message pops up while I'm still smiling over the first.

By "high maintenance," did you mean you need regular deliveries of MERs and someone to shine your combat boots, or did you mean someone to vent to, or did you mean something else that my simple male brain hasn't thought of yet?

MERs?

What is he— oh .

I snort-giggle to myself while I ease in the back door, typing as I go.

He means MREs.

Meals Ready to Eat.

I mean I expect you to let me vent without offering a solution. And also deliver four dozen dandelions to my front door every morning beside the Army-grade black coffee you'll have to drive up to Fort Belvoir to get.

I don't expect any of that, obviously, beyond perhaps having a sympathetic ear.

And after the coffee that Hazel over at Rise and Grind brought me this morning was so delicious, I don't think I could drink Army coffee sludge ever again.

Especially Army coffee sludge that would be cold after the two-plus hour drive back from northern Virginia, probably more after traffic.

But when the bubbles appear that tell me he's typing a text back, anticipation puts a lightness in my heart that I haven't felt in weeks.

"Bailey?" Mama calls.

"It's Annika," I reply, crossing through the small kitchen and into the dim living room. I turn the lights up a smidge and sit next to Mama on the ivory couch. She has a crochet needle in her hand and she's fiddling with a ball of yarn in her lap. "How was your session with the mobility specialist?"

"What color is this?" she asks.

"It's your hunter green wool," I tell her.

Her chin wobbles. "The one I was going to use for a scarf for you."

"Mama—"

She grabs the yarn and hurls it across the room, then flings the crochet hook after it. The metal hook clatters against a picture of the three of us on the wall, and the glass shatters and the whole thing tumbles to the floor.

Her head drops into her hands as if it's being pulled by the devil himself.

My chest caves in, but I don't have time to feel for me right now. "Mama. Let's go bowling."

"I can't see , Annika."

"But you can still feel . And I know you can still throw a ball."

"I can't . And now I made a mess that I can't clean up because I can't see ."

I wrap my arms around her and squeeze tight while a sob wrenches through her, because I don't know what else to do.

I can't give her back her vision.

She doesn't want to hear that I'll clean up the mess, or that it was her favorite picture of the three of us, all of us wearing beaver teeth and bunny ears after a fun run that I talked them into doing with me when they came to visit me in Texas last spring.

She doesn't even complain about me being cold and soaking wet.

Mama not retreating into mama mode is scary.

"Where's Bailey?" she gasps between sobs.

"She's out, Mama. Getting some fresh air."

"She can't see me like this. Help me to my room. Tell her I'm napping."

I can't help her to her room until I get the glass cleaned up, because we'll both step in it, so instead, I keep hugging her. "She's biking over to a friend's house. We have time." And I need to text Bailey to tell her to stay out for a while.

"I'm sorry, Annika. I'm so sorry."

"Stop. Don't be sorry. This isn't your fault."

"It is . And now your life is upside down and Bailey's life is upside down and you're here trying to hold together my life when you should be enjoying yours."

"Mama. Stop . There's no place I'd rather be."

"You should sell the bakery."

" Mama ."

"No. No . It's not your dream. It was mine. And now—now?—"

"Now, it's all three of us, together, just like we should've been the last ten years."

She shakes me off, and I hate that I have to let her go, but the doctors and therapists have all warned me that she needs to grieve, and that I need to let her.

I can't do it for her.

But I need to do it for me too.

I need to grieve for everything. And I need to let her re-learn how to live.