Page 18 of Rise
Her smile thinned. “It’s only day one.”
The woman hummed. “True. But first days say a lot.” Her gaze slipped again to the pastry case and she stepped closer, lips pursed. “Not much left.”
“I had a bit of a rush earlier,” Hazel replied, too quickly. “Didn’t expect so many people to come in.”
“Still learning your volume, then,” she said with the faintest lilt of amusement. “Waste adds up fast, so does inconsistency. But you’ll figure that out. Or not.”
Hazel didn’t speak. She could feel the sweat at the base of her neck cooling now, sticky and cold beneath her collar. Her hands itched to do something— wipe the counter, tuck her hair back, press the screen on the register just to make it stop blinking. But she held still, uneasy beneath the pressure of the woman’s sharp gaze.
She turned as if to go, then, but paused at the door.
“Cute branding, though,” she said, that same almost-smile on her lips. “Rise. Very… aspirational.”
It didn’t feel like much of a compliment.
Hazel swallowed, forcing a rough, shaky smile. “Thanks.”
The woman nodded, as though the verdict had been delivered.
“Well, I suppose we’ll see how long you make it.”
Then, with a final look that held no warmth and no malice— just the hollow civility of someone already moving on— she added, “Good luck.”
And the door shut behind her.
Hazel stood alone in the stillness, letting the interaction wash over her. Her heart had kicked up, not fast, but deep— lodged in her ribs like something had come loose. That woman hadn’t raised her voice, hadn’t insulted her directly, but she might as well have held up a mirror and whispered:You don’t belong here. Not really. And we won’t remember you when you’re gone.
The register screen blinked again, drawing Hazel’s attention.
Network error. Check connection.
She stared at it, unblinking, for a long moment. She pressed a hand flat to the counter, just enough to steady herself, then she reached for the scrunchie on her wrist and pulled her hair back with fingers that still shook.
4
Iris and Malcolm were both leaning against the front counter, the kind of casual stance that saidwe’ve been here a while and we’re not going anywhere soon.Iris had a maple iced tea in hand, her sunglasses perched in her curls like a crown. Malcolm sipped slowly from a plastic to-go cup with his name and that same smiling face etched on the side.
It was late morning, the lull between the bakery’s second rush and the lunch crowd. It was Hazel’s favourite kind of quiet. The kind that still held the buzz of energy, but softened a bit around the edges. Music hummed low from the speakers overhead, a lazy jazz instrumental weaving between the creaks of old floorboards and the occasional hiss of the espresso machine as it cooled.
Hazel had started to look forward to their daily visits, those late morning lulls when Iris and Malcolm would appear like clockwork, order a couple of drinks and a baked good pick me up, leaning against the counter as if it belonged just as much to them as it did to her. It was easy, the way they slipped into her space, and over the last week, she’d begun to gather pieces of their lives like recipe cards tucked into a tin.
She learned that Iris was originally from Oregon but had moved to Bar Harbor with her wife, Claire, a local-born geneticist who worked at the nearby research labs. Iris, who confessed she’d once been allergic to the idea of small-town life, now said she couldn’t imagine livinganywhere else. She grew all her own flowers in a sprawling garden and accompanying greenhouse behind their house and had been trying to recruit Hazel into the yoga classes she attended three times a week at the Northlight Collective down Main Street— a place Hazel had never even stepped foot in. She was intrigued, though.
Malcolm, quiet and steady, had taken over Greyfin Studios after his mom passed, and while he hadn’t changed much from the boy she remembered, he carried himself with the kind of intention that came from deep roots. He spoke with quiet conviction about his hope to start a youth art program in the winter: sculpting, painting, anything to get kids creating. Hazel found herself hoping he would do it— at that age, it was the sort of program she would have sacrificed almost anything to be a part of.
Their presence, together, was like the steam that rose off fresh bread: grounding, real, and warm in all the ways she hadn’t known she’d needed.
She wiped the counter in slow circles that morning, her cloth moving in lazy arcs. She was content to let them linger. She liked having people in the space. Friends. Familiarity. The scent of lavender shortbread and espresso lingered in the air, mingling with the floral heaviness of the bouquet Iris had brought the day before to replace the one she’d brought on opening day.
Hazel glanced up at them as she moved and paused.
They were looking at each other, not talking. Just...looking.
Not like amoment—they certainly didn’t have those, given that Iris was married and Malcolm was on a self-proclaimed celibacy journey, from his own admission earlier in the week. No, this was something else entirely. Something performative and coordinated.
Iris’s brows arched meaningfully toward Malcolm and Malcolm gave the world’s tiniest shrug in response, then nodded, though just barely. It appeared to be a silent standoff.
Hazel blinked, then narrowed her eyes.
