Page 27 of Bittersweet

Coco rushes through the café and behind the counter. She throws herself at my legs, squeezinghard.

I smile, some of the tension loosening from my shoulders. It’s hard to stay angry when she’s around. “Hey, baby girl. You ready for some pumpkinpicking?”

“Yes!” Coco gives a littlejump.

B smiles. “It’s all she talked about on the drive over. Pumpkins, pumpkins, pumpkins.” She lets the door swing closed behind her and walks farther inside the bakery. “I can’t believe old man Thompson hasn’t tried to chase us off his land in what? Twenty-fiveyears?”

“Something like that, yeah,” I reply. The old man in question is our parents’ next-door neighbor. Ever since me, my brother, and my sister were kids, he’s been letting us comb through his pumpkin patch at Halloween, searching for the perfect pumpkins to decorate in honor of the event. Now, even though his patch is substantially smaller, and we are substantially older, he welcomes us into his field, no questionsasked.

“Thanks for letting me take the afternoon off.” B grins as she flips the shop’s Open sign to Closed. “I need the distraction. I’m struggling to make the perfect present for Nonna and Nonno’sanniversary.”

“You? Struggling?” I arch my eyebrows. My sister is the definition ofcapable.

“I just can’t seem to get the metalwork right.” She shrugs, her expressiondowncast.

“Maybe pumpkins will be your muse,” I suggest, and shelaughs.

“Maybe. Did you invite Romy?” B asks, then turns her attention to the glass display. “Oh! Orange and poppy seed. MayI?”

I take a paper bag from the top of the counter. “Of course. And no. I didn’t askRomy.”

“Womy?” Coco asks. “Your fwiend with the dinoswaurtop?”

“Daddy’sspecialfriend with the dinosaur top,” B throws in, and I shoot her alook.

“Daddy would have liked her to be his special friend,” I growl. I always try to be brutally honest with Coco, but my four-year-old does not need to know all the ways I planned on making Romy feel “special.”

“Oh.” Coco’s lower lip sticks out. “So you aren’t fwiends anymore?Why?”

“Yeah.” B frowns. “Why aren’t you friendsanymore?”

I shoot her a glare. How can I say this in front of my daughter? “Because, Coco, some people like . . .” I glance around the room, landing on the baked goods in front of me. “Some people like cupcakes. They see a future with lots of cupcakes in it, and that’sgreat.”

Coco nods, her eyes wide. “I wikecupcakes.”

“I know you do, cookie. I like cupcakes too. Very, very much.” I look to B for help but as usual, there’s none to be had. Instead, I land on the muffins in the display. Orange and poppy seed—one of Romy’s favorites. “And then other people like . . .muffins.”

“Womy likesmuffins?”

“Yes,” I agree. “In fact, she loves muffins so much that she’s not willing to try cupcakes, even though that’s a deal-breaker on being a special friend forme.”

B’s eyes flick from me to the pastry cabinet, to Coco. She frowns, shaking her head. “I don’tfollow.”

“Me either. Why don’t you lick the icing off your cupcake? Then it’s like a muffin and she can be your fwiend!” Cocoexclaims.

Shit. Kid logic. I sigh. “Because even though the icing would be gone, it’d still be a cupcake. Romy won’t accept cupcakes. She doesn’t want the responsibility. And I need cupcakes in my life, just like I need you.” I reach down and hug my little girl, my world, meeting B’s eyes over hershoulder.

This time, my sister nods her understanding, but her face is still a mask of confusion. “Are you sure she’s not into cupcakes? Because I have afeeling—”

“Completely sure.” I straighten, sliding a muffin into a paper bag and handing it to B. I take another bag from the counter, Coco’s favorite chocolate cupcake already stuffed inside, and run my hands over my jeans, checking for my wallet, phone, and keys. “Now let’s get out of here. We have pumpkins topick.”

“Yay!” Coco squeals and races toward thedoor.

“Elio, are yousure—"

“Let’s talk about it later,” I interrupt my sister, ushering her out into the cool afternoonair.

“Okay,” B says, surprisinglyagreeable.

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