Page 147 of here

She tugs free, but doesn’t step away. “Want to talk about it?”

“About bread?”

“Brandon.”

My hands halt mid-motion. “My mom used to say kneading bread was cheaper than therapy.” She wasn’t wrong.

“Did you and your mom bake often?”

“Every Sunday.” Mom’s face, with flour on her cheek and that secretive smile when she’d let me sneak cookies, flashes in my mind. “Dad worked late, so we’d take over the kitchen. Make enough bread for the week. We didn’t have much back then. But it was enough.”

She shifts closer, her arm brushing mine. “What happened when he came home?”

“He’d see the mess. Tell her she was spoiling me. That Milton men don’t waste time playing house.”

“That’s not nice.”

A laugh bursts out before I can stop it. “Yeah. It wasn’t. But Elijah got the worse. Dad always took him with him.”

Naomi’s fingers trail across the counter, gathering flour dust. “What would he think about you baking now?”

“He’s dead.”

“Yet here you are, hiding in the dark.”

“I’m not—” I pound the dough against the floured surface. “This isn’t about him.”

“Then why haven’t you cooked since he died?”

Push, fold, turn. “Why haven’t you kept down a meal?” Shit.

“Because…” Her voice is so faint, swallowed by the steady thump of kneading, that for a second, I think I imagined it. “I feel guilty.“

My gaze snaps to her.That’s the first time she actually admits it. “I’m scared. Not exactly of failing but of…”

“Being happy,” she finishes my sentence.

Being happy.

When was the last time I let myself even consider that?

Definitely before Dad died.

“Every time I step into a kitchen, I hear him.This isn’t what I built this family for. You’re throwing away your legacy for a hobby.”

“And now?”

“Now he’s dead, and I sold my restaurant to be the son he wanted. Real fucking ironic, right?”

“You know what I think?”

“Careful, cupcake. Thinking at this hour’s dangerous.”

She traces patterns in the flour. “I think you’re punishing yourself. Just like?—”

“You?”

“Just like me.”

---