Page 36 of Broken Roads
I wrap my hands around the mug, letting its warmth seep into my palms. "I'm not hungry."
"Didn't ask if you were hungry." She pushes the plate closer. "Said to eat. Small bites. It helps."
There's something in her tone that leaves no room for argument. I break off a small piece of the cinnamon roll, the dough pulling apart in soft, yeasty strands. It tastes like comfort itself, sweet and warm and uncomplicated. I take another bite, larger this time, surprised to find my appetite returning as the sugar hits my system.
Tessa watches me with patient eyes, not pushing for details, just letting me gather myself in the safety of this quiet corner. Her hair is held back by a bandana today, bright blue with white polka dots but a few blonde curls escape to frame her face. There's a smudge of flour on her cheek, and her shirt—bright pink beneath her apron—has what looks like chocolate syrup splattered near the collar. She should look chaotic, disheveled even, but instead, she just looks real.
"At breakfast," I finally begin, "Sawyer invited me to go to the bar with them tonight. I said no, of course. Made an excuse about work. But then Bradley..." I trail off, the memory of his cutting tone still sharp enough to sting.
"It wasn't just that moment," I continue, tearing at a napkin, shredding it into tiny pieces that scatter across the table. "It's...it's everything. It's not just about avoiding alcohol, Tessa. It's that having drinks with friends seems to be the only way people bond these days. Every social invitation involves a bottle or a bar. And every time I say no, I can see confusion, disappointment, and judgment. Like I'm the weird one, the antisocial one, the killjoy."
My hands shake slightly as I lift the coffee mug. "I feel like I'm missing out on connections. Like I have to choose between my sobriety and actually belonging somewhere." I take a sip, the bitterness a welcome contrast to the sweetness of the cinnamon roll. "Bradley just brought it all to the surface. Made me feel like an outsider all over again."
Tessa leans forward, her gaze intense and unwavering. "Can I tell you something I wish someone had told me in my first year sober?"
I nod, setting down the mug.
"Honey, real connections happen anywhere. Over coffee, fixing fences, or walking dogs. The people worth keeping in your life will find ways to include you that don't involve yourtriggers." She reaches across the table, covering my hand with hers. "And the ones who can't imagine socializing without alcohol? They probably have their own issues they're not ready to face."
The simple truth of her words settles in my chest, easing something tight that's been wound there since Sawyer's invitation.
"When I first got sober," she continues, her voice softening, "I lost an entire friend group. Every single one. Our whole relationship was built around drinking and partying. When I stopped, they acted like I'd joined a cult or something." She lets out a short laugh, but there's old pain beneath it. "They kept inviting me out, kept saying 'just one won't hurt,' kept making me feel like I was overreacting."
She gestures around the bakery, to the customers chatting over coffee and pastries, to the community bulletin board covered with local event flyers. "But then I found this place. Started building a life that didn't revolve around bars. Started suggesting hikes or coffee dates or, hell, even bowling instead of drinks."
I can picture it easily; Tessa, fierce and determined, carving out a sober life one deliberate choice at a time. It makes my own struggles feel less isolating, knowing she walked this path before me.
"Some people disappeared from my life," she admits. "But the ones who stayed? They're the real deal. And I found new people who never knew drinking-Tessa, who only know this version." She taps her chest. "The real one."
"So what do I do?" I ask, the question smaller and more vulnerable than I intend. "About Sawyer and the others? About social invitations?"
"You get proactive," Tessa says, a spark lighting in her eyes. "Next time, before they can suggest a bar, you suggest something else. You take control of the narrative."
She squeezes my hand. "And you find your people. The ones who don't care if you're holding seltzer instead of beer. The ones who want your company."
The advice is so practical, so stripped of sentimentality while still being deeply caring, that I feel tears threatening again. It's exactly what I needed to hear, not empty reassurances, but a real strategy for moving forward.
"As for Bradley," she continues, a mischievous glint entering her eyes. "That man needs a wake-up call about a lot of things. But that's a battle for another day."
I laugh, the sound surprising me with its genuineness. "I think I've had enough Bradley battles for a year."
"Fair enough." She nods toward the half-eaten cinnamon roll. "Now finish that before it gets cold."
I take another bite, savoring the sweetness on my tongue. For the first time since breakfast, I feel like I can breathe properly again. The knot in my chest has loosened, the weight on my shoulders lightened. I haven't solved everything—Bradley will still be Bradley, the ranch's problems still need fixing, and my sobriety will always require vigilance—but sitting here in this warm corner with someone who understands, I no longer feel like I'm facing it all alone.
"Thank you," I say when I've finished the last bite. "For this. For everything."
Tessa waves away my gratitude with a flour-dusted hand. "That's what friends are for. And sponsors. And badass bakery owners who give excellent advice."
I smile, running my finger through a smear of frosting left on the plate. "I've been so focused on what I've lost by getting sober.What I've had to give up. I forget sometimes about what I've gained."
"Like fabulous friends with amazing pastry skills?" Tessa grins.
"Like that," I agree, feeling steadier than I have all day. "And like being present for moments that actually matter, instead of drinking through them and waking up with regrets."
Outside the bakery window, Montana sunshine spills across the street, illuminating the small town that's slowly becoming more familiar. For a moment, I let myself imagine building a life here, not just surviving, not just working, but actually living. Finding my place not despite my sobriety, but with it as my foundation.
One day at a time.
