Chapter 19

19

Annika

Despite a long nap this afternoon, Mama also insists on an early bedtime. I'm finally able to sit down with a chocolate chip cookie that I pilfered from Duh-Nuts this morning, catch up on our financials, and then read Grady's texts again.

Not to brag, but I make some damn fine coffee. You should try mine before deciding you actually prefer Army coffee.

That wasn't an insult to any coffee that might be produced in Sarcasm, by the way.

Annika?

I'm debating what to say—it's been hours , which probably means that conversation has died and now I have to start a new one—when Bailey flops into the kitchen in an oversize Half-Cocked Heroes T-shirt and dancing skeleton pajama pants.

"We forgot to do laundry," she announces, then drops her voice. "And I got all the sugar crystals set up for the geode donuts tomorrow, but if Mama's not up to kneading the dough, we should probably only do a half-batch to save some for Thursday."

"She'll be up for kneading," I reply with far more confidence than I feel.

This is normal , the therapist replied when I texted her an SOS this afternoon. If she wants to talk, I'm here. You and Bailey and your mama aren't alone, Annika . But good and bad days are part of the grieving process. So long as the good days outnumber the bad, she's on track .

Nothing feels on track .

Except possibly that other text message thread that I closed up as soon as Bailey walked in the door.

Being friends with Grady again—even tentative friends—is the first right thing about being home.

"How are you feeling about the fryer?" I ask her.

"I'm ready for blow torch lessons," she replies.

"Do you want a day off? You haven't talked about hanging out with Sophie or Adriana at all lately."

"Sophie's at some lame sleepaway camp, and Adriana is mooning over Brantley Constantinos." She screws her face up with her tongue out, clearly indicating what she thinks of relationships, which is good.

She doesn't have to make the same mistakes I made and refuse to date, but she's thirteen.

There's no reason to rush this relationship stuff.

Just like going to the movies or a dance with a boy doesn't mean she has to have sex with him. Which Mama and I have both reminded her on a regular basis since the day she first asked where babies came from.

"What about a day to just go hang out at the pool?" I ask.

"Skin cancer."

"Sunscreen."

"Drowning hazard."

"Wear a snorkel."

"Metabolic insufficiency."

" What? "

She rises and heads for the refrigerator, perusing without taking anything out. "I don't want to go, okay?"

And it hits me.

Metabolic insufficiency .

She thinks she's fat and doesn't want to go out in a swimsuit.

"Bailey—"

"I like baking, okay? I'd rather be making food art and setting myself up for a successful future in a career I love than frolicking in water that half the town has peed in while the popular cheerleaders sit in the lifeguard chairs pretending to care about if people drown."

I am in so over my head. "If you don't like swimming, just say so. But if you don't want to go because of what someone might say?—"

"I'm Maria Williams's daughter. I don't give two fucks what anyone might say." She slams the fridge door, battles a bunch of bananas on the counter until one finally loses the wrestling war she's waging with it, and then peels it from the bottom, monkey-style. "I just don't like swimming. It's boring . All we have is a box of water. Shipwreck has this huge awesome waterpark with a waterslide and a lazy river and one of those massive buckets over a water jungle gym. But we don't. Because we're Sarcasm. We're better than gimmicks."

"Oooo-kay," I say slowly. "Better than gimmicks. Got it."

"I'm getting a pimple, so I need extra sleep. Can you check on Mama before you go to bed?"

"Of course."

"And don't forget to lock the door. Someone was snooping around the bakery earlier. I don't want him thinking he can come in here either."

She gives me a meaningful glare that suggests exactly who was snooping at the bakery, then bends to hug me. "I'm glad you're here, even if you make me really mad sometimes."

"Same." I think I have emotional whiplash, and I'm not entirely certain what happened—probably hormones crossed with exhaustion—but I pick up the peel Bailey left on the table when she hugged me, toss it in the trash, and wait until I hear her finish in the bathroom and close her bedroom door before I slip out into the night, ignoring the big blue BEDTIME sticker on my calendar for right about now.

I love the stars here.

And the sky.

It's purple velvet dotted with glitter, and I swear, there's not another night sky in all the world like this one.

Technically, it's the same sky, but lying on my back in Mama's small patch of grass, tucked in by the mountains, with the crickets chirping and the cicadas whirring, the air turning just this side of chilly after a long hot day, the promise of dew wafting through the breeze, it's different.

It's home .

It's reliable when everything else is upside down.

I should go to bed too. Getting up at four AM to dash to the bakery every day before getting Mama to her appointments is taking its toll, which is saying something, considering the schedule I kept in the Army. But I don't want to go to bed.

I want?—

I want a friend.

I stare at my phone way too long before I make up my mind, because Bailey would hit the roof if she knew I was considering calling the enemy.

Liliana is an option if I want to just talk . We've been texting back and forth since she stopped by the bakery the other day and then had girls' night.

But she's not Grady.

We don't have the same history.

She doesn't know me.

Not the way he used to.

My finger hits call before my brain or my heart or my liver—I don't know, maybe my liver needs a say?—can stop me.

When it rings three times, then four, I almost hang up. I can plead slip of the finger when I was checking text messages.

But a sleepy, startled, "Hello?" comes through on the other end, and it's like the last ten years haven't happened.

"Pass out watching the Fireballs?" I ask.

It's what he would've done in high school after a long track practice.

His chuckle is rueful and soothing and warm. "You got me. Sue! Dammit, Sue, get out of— argh . You're cleaning that up, you damn goat."

"Left out your dinner of Frosted Flakes?" I ask, hoping he says yes, because that's what he always told me his dream was.

Frosted Flakes for dinner after a long hard day of feeding people delicious baked goods.

"Lucky Charms. Close enough."

"Chocolate milk?"

"You calling me predictable?"

"I could go for predictable," I confess quietly while a mosquito buzzes past my ear.

"You still have your plans for tomorrow color-coded on a flow chart that's been printed and hung on the refrigerator?"

I'd call him an ass, except I do. "No, I work in black and white gradients now."

His chuckle sends a pleasant buzz arrowing between my legs. "What's tomorrow? Wednesday? Is that still blue sock day?"

"No."

"Fucking Army."

I smile up at the swath of stars sparkling above me. It's a sad smile, but it's a smile. "You know why I did that, don't you?"

"Because you were awesome?"

"It was the only thing we ever splurged on. Bought new. Socks, underwear, and good shoes. But Mama shopped the sales like it was her full-time job, so when she found these horrifically ugly socks in the clearance rack for pennies on the dollar just a few weeks before I started high school, she bought all of them. I think I still have a couple unopened packs buried in the bottom of my drawer in my room here. But when I told myself Thursdays were red sock day and Tuesdays were gold-and-black stripe day and Fridays were mismatch day, they were…"

"More bearable?"

He still sounds so sleepy. Like if he were next to me, he'd curl his head onto my shoulder and fling an arm around my belly, and I could sniff sleepy Grady and run my hands through his hair and just be .

"Yes," I whisper.

I want to just be . No worries. No stress. No Army. No bakery. Mine or his.

"You know you started a fashion trend."

How many times did he tease me like that in high school? And how many times did I tell myself that that's what friends did, and how many times did I ignore that little voice whispering, he teases you because he likes you, Annika .

Of course he liked me.

We were friends.

Best friends.

"Annika?"

"How was culinary school?" I don't want to talk about me .

I want to know what I missed.

"It was…hard, but fun," he says.

"And you came home and bought Crow's Nest?"

"Tell you a secret?"

"Is it actually a secret?"

"Ahh…I guess that depends on where you're from."

"Mm-hmm."

Lightning bugs dance overhead, blinking on and off, and I sigh happily while Grady's voice drifts into my ear.

"Cooper co-signed the loan," he says slowly. "It's basically half his."

"That makes sense."

I can feel him going tense. There are miles and practically a mountain between us, but the space doesn't matter. I know it bothers him that he couldn't do it all on his own.

"I'm saving up to buy him out. Slowly. So fucking slowly. Or at least get a new loan without his name on it. So if I ever fuck it up, it doesn't hurt him. It's just…taking longer than I expected."

"I co-signed on Mama's loan," I tell him. "Family helps family."

"Yeah, but…"

He drifts off, and when I hear a quick inhale, I know he's dropping it before he says something stupid like, yeah, but my family could afford to send me to college, whereas yours could end up bankrupt with nowhere to turn if your bakery doesn't work .

"You still like that soft serve crap?"

I bust out laughing. "You still call it that soft serve crap ?"

"That's what it is."

"It's delicious ."

"If I hold my nose and go get a cone, will you meet me at the ninth hole?"

My muscles tense and the grass beneath me suddenly feels like pins instead of a soft cushion. "You want me to sneak onto a golf course after dark?"

"I know the manager. It'll be fine."

"I'm not fully discharged from the Army yet, and I'm not going out with a trespassing charge on my record."

"Are you objecting to the golf course, or are you objecting to ice cream with me?"

A strangled answer slips out of my mouth, because I'd love to have ice cream with Grady. And talk. And catch up. And talk .

But you don't grow up knowing the world is just waiting for you to fuck up and put a toe out of line without developing a healthy respect for playing by the rules.

I knew exactly what my middle school and high school teachers were thinking every time they asked if I was Maria Williams's daughter.

Another wild Williams kid. Wonder if this one'll party out in the cornfields until she gets herself knocked up too?

It's part of why the Army was a good choice.

I knew the rules. I could follow the rules. And we were all equal when we pulled on our boots every morning.

Nobody else could point to my pants and giggle because they dropped those same pants off at Goodwill last week. Drill sergeants didn't care if you came from money or grew up in an orphanage. They didn't give me the side eye because my mama was a little wild before she got pregnant.

"How about I call the sheriff and ask special permission to sit in the clubhouse parking lot and catch up with an old friend?"

His exasperation is almost cute.

"The sheriff's from Sarcasm," I remind him. "You'd basically be asking for both of us to be led away in cuffs."

"Dammit," he mutters.

"Sarcasm Cellars," I say. "I have a connection there. You bring the soft serve. I'll be there as soon as I can sneak away."