Page 100 of Ashes of Us
CHAPTER 38: PIPER
Istopped going to the pool.
It was easier than risking running into him at 5:45 AM, easier than having to smile and pretend everything was fine while my chest felt like it was caving in. I told myself I was just tired, that I needed the extra sleep, that missing a few morning swims wouldn't kill me.
The truth was I couldn't face him.
His first text came the day after his birthday.
Hey. You okay? Haven't seen you at the pool today.
I stared at it for twenty minutes before responding.
Yeah, just busy. Bakery stuff.
Short. Distant. Safe.
Everything alright?
Fine. Just a lot going on.
The lies came easier than I expected.
He tried calling on Thursday. I let it go to voicemail, then listened to it three times in my car outside the bakery, hating myself a little more with each replay.
"Hey, it's me. Just... wanted to check in. Feel like I haven't seen you in a while. Text me back when you get a chance, okay? I’m just… just worried."
His voice sounded concerned. Like he actually gave a shit.
I deleted the voicemail and went inside to frost cupcakes until my hands stopped shaking.
Friday morning, he showed up at the bakery.
I saw him through the front window—that particular slant of shoulders I'd recognize anywhere—and immediately retreated to the kitchen.
"Megan," I called out, probably too loud. "Can you handle the front for a bit?"
"Sure." She gave me a curious look but didn't ask questions. Good kid.
I busied myself with inventory in the back, counting flour bags I'd already counted twice, listening to the muffled sound of voices from the front. His deep rumble and Megan's cheerful response. The espresso machine hissing.
After what felt like an eternity, the bell chimed, and then… silence.
I waited another five minutes before emerging.
"He seemed worried about you," Megan said, wiping down the counter. "Asked if you were okay."
"I'm fine."
"That's what I told him." She paused. "He didn't look convinced."
I grabbed a rag and started scrubbing the already-clean counter. "Did he order anything?"
"Just a coffee, black. Didn't stay."
Of course he didn't. Because he'd come here for me, not the coffee. And I'd hidden in the back like a coward.
The cake I’d baked for him was still in my fridge at home. I couldn't bring myself to throw it away, but I couldn't look at it either. It sat there on the middle shelf, a constant reminder of my stupidity, perfectly frosted and utterly useless.
