Page 91 of The Best Kind of Bad

Mimi’s.

Andy and Erin are fully on board with the careful dissection of my best pastries. I’m proud of what I accomplished with Mimi’s. But even as they discuss it, it feels like we’re talking about something in the past. I don’t have the desire to breathe life back into it anymore.

I’m ready for the next thing and I’m starting to realize that I don’t want to do a repeat.

The bakery was successful. It opened doors. We did big events and made a place for Mimi’s in the Lincoln market. It was a wild ride, but I don’t want to write the sequel.

Been there, done that.

Dusty’s bees, the locally grown, sustainable crops, that’s what’s got my imagination going. It makes me feel like I could do something bigger. Something meaningful that I could really love.

And while I’m sheltering that kernel of an idea in my hands, talk of Mimi’s feels like it could snuff it out.

There’s a pressure to come back. To dive right back in. But it doesn’t compel me anymore.

Silver Bend is compelling.

Dustyis compelling.

And he is sitting beside me, to all observers looking relaxed and magnetic. But I can feel how tense he is. Maybe I’m tensing up, too.

It’s not wise to try to out-drink or out-party chefs. These guys can go until the sun comes up.

It was fun seeing my friends, but now all I want to do is drag Dusty back to my place, where we can be alone.

And I realize, fuck it, it’s my God damned birthday. I’m going to do what I want.

Cutting out, Dusty and I make our way to the parking lot. I pause by the car; an errant breeze ruffles my hair.

Dusty wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me into his hips. “Did you have a good birthday?”

I hook my hands over his shoulders, sliding my palms up to link my fingers behind his neck. “Yeah, I think I did. I’m glad I got to spend it with you.”

He smiles, but there’s a funny look in his eye. A chink in his armor.

Pushing up on my tiptoes, I angle my face towards him, and he bends down, brushing his lips over mine.

It’s a sweet kiss, long and soft, and it feels like he’s trying to say something that he doesn’t have the words for.

Which is fine, because I feel the same way.

Sometimes, words just can’t do it justice.

60.

Dusty

Marnie lives in an old neighborhood. It’s not flashy, but every house on the street is well cared for. I follow her up the porch, interested to see where she lives.

Anxious to see this part of Marnie.

She flicks on a light, throwing her keys on an end table. A smile curves my lips. This is Marnie in a nutshell. Southwestern rugs cover the wood floors. There’s an eclectic mix of modern art and framed vintage posters hanging on the walls.

And plants spring from every flat surface. I stop to examine a plant that reminds me of a mini palm tree. “Who’s been watering your plants while you’re gone?”

“Renata.” She lingers by the back of a vintage couch, her fingertips balanced lightly on its velvet surface.

It’s jarring to realize that while she’s been carving a place for herself with me in Silver Bend, this was all waiting for her in Lincoln. On hold, ready for her to come waltzing back. She has a ready escape route.

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