Page 13 of Every Good Thing
That promise got us through Cherry’s divorce when she was too bitter to hear reason unless it came from us, Dot’s off-the-wall ideas when she was getting her business off the ground, and my pregnancy when I was perpetually hangry. We rely on our friendship like the internet—it’s there for whatever we need, when we need it.
That understanding flows between us now. If Dot says it’s nothing, I should believe her. I take a deep breath, my nose filling with cinnamon and vanilla from the batter I’m mixing.
But my shoulders sink when she adds on a belabored, “But something’s wrong. Not cheating, but something.”
“He also said… he misses us.”
“Yeah, that makes sense.” Clattering ensues on her end. “Are you freaking out?”
“A little. Yes.”
“What’s the anxiety meter at right now?”
“Eh, six. Seven. Ish. I’m already late and so far behind.”
“Threat-level-midnight,” she says. “Take a breath, get to work, and I’ll be there shortly with reinforcements.”
“Not Cherry, right?” I ask, loving my friend but knowing I don’t need her men-only-think-with-their-penises lecture today.
“God no, she’d jump all over this like a drunk spring breaker on a mechanical bull. Just me. Hang in there, babe.”
We end the call, and I feel slightly better. But Ben’s words still haunt me as I make the coffee, preheat the ovens, and let Mr. Wickers in.
He bows his glossy bald head. “Morning, Lena. Ready for the day?”
“Is the day ready for me?” My usual reply sounds somewhat weaker today.
He inhales deeply and looks alarmed. “Nothing’s baking yet?”
“I’m getting there. Everything okay with you?”
“Fine and dandy. Saw your beau out there.” He motions toward the barn. “He’s as dependable as your mailman. No fuss. No muss.”
Mr. Wickers and Ben once bonded in relative silence over a stalled car in the parking lot. Ben had jumper cables. Mr. Wickers had WD-40 for the caked battery acid on the terminals. The rest is history.
“Yes, he’s a keeper,” I say with an uneasy chuckle.
“I’ll turn on the lights and check the bathrooms.”
He leaves me for his self-assigned tasks. Soon, he’ll take his usual table—the two-top by the window—where he’ll tackle his crossword and wait patiently for coffee and a bran muffin. He’s the only reason I make the bland things. No one else buys them, but I don’t mind that or his arriving so early. He’s become a welcome fixture around here.
I watch Ben’s shadow disappear into the house through the kitchen window. Everything’s okay—it has to be. Still, a familiar undercurrent hums through me, tensing my shoulders and turning my stomach, so I engage the mantra that helped me fight anxiety while caring for Mom: make one thing better. Focusing on what needs to get done will eventually lead me back to Ben. He’s my end goal today. I’m determined to spend time together and talk like we used to.
Determined to find out more about Lauren, too, if only to satiate my anxiety bitches. She must be more than nothing to be on Ben’s mind.
I concentrate on the jobs at hand—cinnamon rolls, bagged lunches, and special orders. I flip open my black, half-sized spiral notebook, similar to the one I used to keep track of Mom’s medications. Loose pages fly to the floor. I scoop them up and turn to today’s list, scribbled in shorthand that only I understand. Along with the usual, I have to make two bundt carrot cakes for the Thursday ladies’ Bible study and a dozen limoncello cupcakes with purple icing for Millie Lewis’s girls’ night—special request, extra boozy.
The papers flutter in my trembling hands. Nerves claw at my insides like skittish cats. Damn it—these are not the Ben aftershocks I wanted.
Upbeat piano melodies drift through the kitchen. Mr. Wickers must be in a good mood—he doesn’t play every day. But when he does, I usually move faster and smile more.
Not today.
Tessa, my baking assistant, arrives as the carrot cakes are baking and the cupcakes are about to go in. I start packing lunches.
“Am I on cookies again?” she asks dully, tying her apron.
“Would you rather make sandwiches?”
