Page 77 of Rise
There had been too many texts like that lately, too many half-filled crates, too many early morning grocery store runs in damp clothes and aching joints. She always made it work, but lately, working had begun to feel like bleeding. Like cutting herself open just to make things easier for someone else.
She waited and let the silence in the bakery hold her a moment longer, and then she tapped the call button.
It rang twice before he answered. She was surprised he’d answered at all.
“Hazel,” he said, far too casually. The sound of it grated against the last corner of her patience. “Hey, listen, I meant to call sooner—“
“You shorted me,” she said, her voice low but firm. “Again.”
“I know. It’s been tough this week. Hens are weird in the cold, you know that. And with the holidays coming, I’ve got bigger—“
“Clients?” Hazel cut in, her jaw tight. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve got bigger clients, Ezra. I’m not asking for special treatment. I’m asking for what we agreed on, what I’ve paid for.”
There was a beat of silence.
“Look… you know what Imogen’s like. I can’t short Fork & Fable or she’d raise hell. And she orders double what you—“
Hazel rolled her eyes toward the ceiling, her hand tightening around the phone. Of course it came back to Imogen.
“You can’t short her but you can short me?”
“That’s not what I meant—“
“We have an agreement,” she said, the sharpened edge beneath her words more clear. “Two hundred eggs per week, in writing. You told me that was manageable. You said it wouldn’t be a problem.”
He didn’t respond.
“It clearlyisa problem,“ she continued, bolstered by his silence. “Because I haven’t received that in weeks. And I can’t keep scraping by while you decide who gets to matter more.”
Another silence. Then, his voice dipped a bit lower. “Hazel, come on. It’s notpersonal—“
“No,” she said, nodding in agreement. “It’s business. Which is why I’ve found someone else.”
Ezra didn’t answer. Hazel stared at the far window, the snow starting to stick now in light patches across the sidewalk.
“I wish you the best,” she said. “I really do. I hope you have a good holiday season.”
And she ended the call. She set the phone back down onto the counter and took a moment to simply breathe, to try and calm her racing heart.
Once the ache in her chest had settled, she crossed to the window once more and stood in front of it, hip pressed against the cold wood of the frame. Her reflection wavered in the condensation and her breath fogged against the glass. She reached up absently to wipe it away.
Her hand trembled, though not with doubt. It was with the leftover weight of finally saying something.
The guilt came first, like it always did. That familiar itch to smooth things over, to apologize, though she’d done nothing wrong.
But beneath that?
Pride. A steady, quiet sense of self. She’d chosen herself. She’d chosen Rise.
And she didn’t feel like she owed anyone an explanation for that.
Behind her, a timer beeped, reminding her of something she’d intended to do.
She turned toward the kitchen, prepared to press on.
