Page 24 of Back to You
The silence stretches, and suddenly, my brain decides to betray me. Shit. Maybe this is a stupid idea.
What was I even thinking? I never went to culinary school. I don’t have a business degree. What do I even know about running a bakery? I mean, sure, I’ve spent hours learning from Ruth, but does that actually mean anything? I’m a damn event coordinator. I can plan a hell of an event, but that’s not the same thing as owning a business.
I start to backpedal, opening my mouth to say forget it, when suddenly…Anna jumps out of her seat and practically tackles me in a hug.
“So you’re staying? Like forever? She asks, eyes wide with excitement.
I hesitate for only a second before nodding, “Yeah. I think I am.” The words feel strange on my tongue, like I’m still getting used to them. But as soon as I say them out loud, something in my chest settles.
Her face lights up, and before I can say anything else, she throws her arms around me. “You have no idea how happy that makes me! That’s an incredible idea, Mari!” she screams into my ear.
I let out a startled gasp, flailing. “Anna—breathing! I need to breathe!”
She loosens her grip slightly but still doesn’t let go. “Right, right. Sorry.” She leans back, eyes shining, cheeks flushed. “I just—Mari, this is huge! I’m so excited for you!”
Wait. So… it’s not a stupid idea? I bite my lip. “You really think so?”
Anna pulls back just enough to look me straight in the eyes. “Of course. She’s basically been prepping you for this since we were kids. There is literally no one better for this than you.”
Her confidence in me hits me like a tidal wave. I didn’t even realize how much I needed to hear that. I swallow, my heart expanding with something warm and unfamiliar. Hope. Excitement. Maybe even a little bit of belief in myself. I nod, gripping my wine glass tighter.
“Okay,” I whisper. I take a deep breath, steadying myself.
First step? Talk to Ruth. If this works out the way I’m hoping… I’ll be owning the local bakery. And finally, for the very first time since I was a teenager, the idea of staying in my small town doesn’t terrify me—it excites me. It feels right.
CHAPTER 8
Mariana
Iwake before the sun, the silence of the house pressing in around me, thick and suffocating. Sleep has been elusive for months, and last night was no different.
Some nights, it’s my body that betrays me—aching joints, stiffness that refuses to ease, the deep, dull pain that makes even shifting under the covers feel like a battle.
But most nights? It’s my mind. A relentless reel of memories and regrets, of what-ifs that have no answers. Every night, I close my eyes, willing my thoughts to settle, but they don’t. They never do.
I slip on a hoodie, the fabric soft and worn, lace up my sneakers, and step outside, inhaling the sharp bite of the crisp morning air. A light fog clings to the street, hovering low, swirling in the dim glow of the street lamps.
The world feels half-asleep, suspended in that quiet space between night and dawn. I don’t have a destination in mind—just a restless energy in my limbs, an urge to move, to shake off the heaviness pressing on my chest. So I walk. Letting my feet carry me wherever they want to go.
I slow without realizing it, my steps faltering as my eyes lift to the sign above me. The Rolling Pin. My breath catches. Ruth’s bakery.
I knew Anna wasn’t lying when she said Ruth retired, but seeing it like this? The once-bright windows are dark, the door shut tight. No golden glow spilling onto the sidewalk, no handwritten specials chalked onto the sign out front.
No scent of warm cinnamon rolls curling through the air. No quiet hum of the oven, no clatter of trays, no muffled laughter from the kitchen. Nothing. A lump forms in my throat.
This place was so much more than a job to me. It was a piece of my childhood, my teenage years, my heart. It’s where I learned how to bake, where I first realized that mistakes didn’t have to be failures—they could be something beautiful. I can still hear Ruth’s voice in my head: "Baking is a science, Mari, but decorating? That’s art. If you mess up, make it part of the design.”
I close my eyes for a second. I can almost see it—Ruth and me, side by side, aprons dusted in flour, holiday music playing as we decorated cakes, her laughter filling the air.
My hand presses against the door, fingers curling around the knob. Please be open. I turn it gently, half-expecting resistance, but it gives way without hesitation. I step inside.
The air is still, carrying only the faintest trace of flour and sugar—a memory refusing to fade away completely. Dust coats the counters, a fine layer undisturbed for months, drifting lazily in the air, stirred by my presence.
The chairs remain stacked, the display cases stand hollow and bare. It looks…the same. And yet, it couldn’t feel more different. The space that once hummed with life, with Ruth—now sits quiet and empty.
I exhale slowly, my heart pulling in two directions. I walk toward the kitchen, my true home inside this place. The secondI flick the light switch, something shifts inside me. It still smells like Ruth. Faint vanilla. A whisper of cinnamon.
This place still has so much magic left in it. I know it. I feel it. I need to try. For me. For Ruth. For this town.
