A Wednesday in August, 3:16 PM
Follow the recipe, measure carefully, and everything turns out just right. I wish life could be as straightforward as baking.
Yesterday's upheaval gnaws at me, but I shove it aside as I work in the familiar haven of Middlebridge Mart's Bakery. I need this slice of time to collect myself.
I measure one last 1/3 cup of flour for my next rye loaf and think about Grey. He's back at work today, tinkering with what he can, one good hand and all.
The bakery side door swings open and in prances confidence I hadn't seen in someone so small. The little girl marches in, her rich brown skin a contrast against the neon green of her skinny jeans and the silver sparkly shirt she wears. Two puffs of dark coily hair bounce with each step she takes, and the way she smacks her gum fills the space.
"What's this place?" she says more than asks, surveying the bakery with big brown eyes. "Smells weird."
That would be the yeast, a weird smell indeed. I grin, wiping my hands on my apron.
"It's a bakery," I say, amused by her boldness.
She turns that critical gaze on me. "Shouldn't it smell like cookies?"
I shrug. "In an ideal world."
She looks at Keiko, smacks her gum, and says, "You could try smiling, you know."
Keiko's jaw hits her shoes. "Excuse me, child?"
The little girl pops a hip, hand on her waist. "I'm six, so I'm not a child. You look twelve."
Keiko's gasp is audible, but before she can recover, the girl turns to me. "I'm Mabel Bello. You look good at adulting. Ever run with scissors?"
"Duh, of course," I say. "And once, a hacksaw."
Her dark eyes light up. "You got one of those back here?" She cranes her neck, trying to peer behind the work table.
Keiko, attempting an authoritative tone, asks, "Are you lost?"
Mabel scoffs, inspecting her pink-painted nails while chewing her gum. "Puh-lease. I'm an explorer." She dismisses Keiko with a flick of her wrist. "You're lost."
Keiko's cheeks flush a deep shade of red. "Listen here you little shit—"
"Ah!" I say quickly, shooting Keiko a look. "No, no."
I move to the ovens, the warmth searing into my shirt and jeans. I sleeve on a mitt and pull out a lemon poppy loaf, its aroma light and sweet.
"Want to try?" I ask Mabel.
"Yes please, miss," she says, her grin spreading wide.
Keiko scoffs, mumbling, "Little shit."
I take off the mitt and gloves and slice a piece of the pale yellow, warm loaf with a serrated knife, mindful to keep the blade away from Mabel's curious gaze.
I hand her the slice. She eyes it with the seriousness of a diplomat.
"Are there peanuts in this?" she asks.
"Nope."
"A peace offering. Smart move. I accept." She takes it and her first bite is met with exuberantly wide eyes. "What the hell? This is good!"
"Language." A guy somewhere around our age with brown skin like Mabel and a scar across his face appears. "What did I tell you?"
"My brother," Mabel grumbles to me, shoving her face with the treat.
"I told you to stop running away from me."
"I'm on a quest for—" Mabel begins, her voice muffled by the treat.
"Independence," he finishes for her, sighing, offering Keiko and me an apologetic glance. "Sorry."
"Totally okay," I find myself laughing, really laughing now, the sound lighter than I'd felt in days.
Keiko is staring at Mabel's brother like he's her next meal. "Hello, there."
He flat-out ignores her.
"Where's Azi?" he asks Mabel.
"Dunno, don't care. Go away, Noah. I'm talking to my fellow women."
He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Maman needs us back at the car. This was just a pitstop. Let's go."
Mabel digs into her little pink purse and produces a stick of gum wrapped in blue foil. She hands it to me solemnly.
"A token," she declares, bowing her head.
Taking it, something tight loosens within my chest. "Why thank you, young explorer."
Her older brother comes around and takes Mabel by the hand, pulling her toward the exit. The little girl shouts her thanks over her shoulder as they leave.
"He's so fucking hot," Keiko says, her eyes glazed. "Did you see that scar? Holy hell. I want that man."
I unwrap and chew on the minty gum Mabel gave me, its freshness a stark contrast to the yeasty air.
"But I'm never having kids," Keiko adds, throwing her weight into her sourdough on the floured table.
I put on a new pair of gloves and start another lemon loaf, knowing Mrs. Jones will demand perfection, untouched by oddities. It's nearly peaceful.
And fleeting.
Mrs. Jones reappears. She isn't alone.
Two police officers accompany her. One is the amber-haired officer from yesterday, the one whose touch lingered on me. Beside him stands a younger officer, his skin dark, his head buzzed.
Keiko's confusion mirrors mine. "What's going on?"
Mrs. Jones's hands flutter like caged birds as she walks away. "Officer Thorn insisted on coming back here, said he needed to ensure everything is as it should be. As if I had any say."
Keiko's frown deepens, but she returns to her task.
My heart races, my palms sweat beneath the gloves. Thorn's gaze fixes on me, on my trembling hands.
"How are you, Miss Chapman?" he asks as he comes over. "Had a chance to calm down?"
The gum in my mouth tastes acidic. Every instinct screams to lash out, but logic holds me back.
Keiko is distracted by the young officer, showing him the ovens with a flirty smile that he seems to eat right up, so she's clueless.
Thorn's fingers graze my apron, playing with the fabric. His short, square nails are caked with dirt.
I shift away, my skin crawling. He takes my apron and tugs me back.
"You've been through a lot, Miss Chapman. It's important to know when to let things go." His words slither through the space between us on notes of coffee breath. "I'm here to help you."
I force myself to nod. Hopefully he'll leave soon.
"It's a shame to see someone as pretty as you caught up in all this mess."
His gaze crawls over me, and I shut my eyes to spare myself the indignity of that leer. Thorn's voice comes again, closer this time, his breath on my cheek.
"Very, very pretty." He pulls at my apron, tries to get me closer.
Justice isn't real. Not even a little bit. No resolutions like in the movies. I can't even pretend.
Thorn's touch is like a snake slithering under my shirt, trailing along my ribs. I want to push him away, but fear roots me to the spot like a useless statue. Every fibre of my being screams.
"So soft," he whispers, "so pretty, so young—"
Thorn crumples to the ground, holding his crotch.
I'm not sure exactly what happened. I think I...snapped. I kneed him in the groin.
Keiko gasps as Thorn groans on the ground, the air filled with his pained groans. Her eyes are wide, flickering to me, then to him, then back to me.
Mrs. Jones rushes in. "What happened? What's going on?"
Keiko stumbles over her words. "Ember just..." She trails off, blinking.
No. Keiko, no.
But it's too late.
Mrs. Jones's scowl bores into me. "You're more trouble than you're worth, girl. I want you out of my kitchen. You're fired."
Officer Jackson eyes me for three long seconds, then comes over and reaches for Thorn, helping him to his feet. Thorn spits at my feet as he leaves, his parting words no surprise.
"Fucking bitch."
As soon as they leave out the back to the loading dock, I put my hands on the wooden worktable and exhale, barely holding myself together, but I'm in shreds, clamouring to collect them all in the wind.
Mrs. Jones barges forward. "Get out." She snaps a wet rag at me. "Get out of my kitchen."
Untying my apron with trembling hands, the fabric flutters to the ground. Another shred.
"Out! Now!"
I step out into the blinding afternoon sun from the back and hit the sidewalk, ready to head home. No other choice.
"Ember!"
Keiko's steps echo behind me. She swings in front of me, panting, hand reached out. "Ember," she says again, likely lost for what to do.
But I can't explain. I walk around her, leaving her and the bakery behind.
The way home is a blur. Again.
I've worked countless odd jobs around Middlebridge since turning fourteen. Babysitter, cashier, lawn mower, snow shoveler, waitress, and baker. I've never been fired before. But it's fine. My contract with Ada Jones was nearly up, anyway; I'm leaving in a matter of weeks. But that's not the point.
My actions today—assaulting a cop—are a line drawn in the sand.
As I turn down our long street, I try to shake the feel of Thorn's hand, rubbing at my waist with my shirt as if I could erase the film of him from my skin. When it doesn't work, my lungs go tight. Like I'm in a small metal box that's getting smaller.
I try again, my skin growing red. It doesn't work. I close my eyes and force myself to calm down because I'm on my street, not back there.
At the Scott's place—empty driveway. In mine, not only is Pat's car home but Raveena's van is parked right behind it.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, bracing myself.
Stepping in and shrugging off my shoes, I see Pat on the couch in his uniform. He checks his watch, confusion creasing his brow. I'm home early.
Raveena's voice calls out from the kitchen. "Hey, hon! Take your shoes off, please! I just cleaned up the mud mat!"
Her presence grates on my nerves almost immediately.
My gaze lands on something on the coffee table. I blink.
My peach, threadbare baseball cap—a piece of me that was missing.
Pat, following my stare, picks it up. "Oh, right. Michael came to collect all their things for his father. Brought this back, said he found it at the hospital and recognized it as yours." He stands and holds it out to me.
I take it, the fabric familiar and rough under my fingers.
"Adio's alive, I hear, but that's about as much as I know," Pat says. "Michael's not much of a talker. They're done with the work here. Think they've gone back home to Goldwen."
Oh. I can't understand why this hurts me so much.
I want to not hurt. Just for a little while.
"Ember, sweetheart, I heard about what happened yesterday. Veena said Greyson was in the hospital. Something at work?" Pat rubs my arms up and down. "He'll be okay."
I notice a smudge of lipstick on Pat's collar—Raveena's shade. My gaze darts to her, bustling about with something sweet at the stove, all oblivious cheer.
"Anyway, I have news," Pat says, excitement leaking from his scratchy vocal cords.
"Ah!" says Raveena, coming over to bump his shoulders, wiping her hands with a cloth. She turns to me with a smile. "Your uncle applied for a custodial management position! Jeb finally fired that ugly woman...What was her name?"
"Kate," Patrick says.
I remember Kate. Kate had tried to get my uncle fired when he missed a few days when I was ten. I had pneumonia and he'd taken care of me.
"Yes, Kate. I heard them talking about outside hires, but I know these things will likely stay inside the staff. It's much too laborious to show someone around, these days."
"Veena told me to just go for it," Pat says, grinning at her. "So, what the hay. I threw in an application."
Because Raveena said so? I'd said the same thing, told him to go for it. That hurts more than it should.
Raveena bumps his shoulder again. "I think the old man's got a chance."
I weave my arms around Pat's wiry, arthritic shoulders and hug him. "I hope you get it. I know you will."
He squeezes me back. "We'll have a big celebratory dinner. Maybe something expensive, huh?"
I nod, squeezing my eyes shut for a moment, pretending I'm young again before letting him go and stepping back.
Pat's next words are hesitant as he scans my face. "You feeling all right, sweetheart? Did you come home because you're sick?"
I debate just for a moment a lie, but one glance at Raveena, a bigger gossip than she lets on, and then my uncle's clouded gray eyes, and I sigh.
"I got fired," I say, the words heavy and final. It kind of starts to hit me, then.
Pat reels back like I've hit him. "Excuse me?"
I fiddle with my ball cap, pulling at the Velcro and re-sticking it. "I'm tired. I'm going to go upstairs—"
"Ember!" Raveena's eyes are wide, accusing. "Explain yourself!"
Pat is staring at me, shocked. Bet he'll find a way to blame Greyson, later. Bet they both will.
I simply turn away, taking the stairs slowly until I'm inside my room, closing the door.
I go and sit on my bed, the peach fabric of my cap's brim stiff under my thumbs. Michael returned it. This twists something in my chest, another kind of sadness that doesn't make sense.
I picture Michael arriving at the hospital, worried, looking for his father. He saw the hat. He recognized it as mine from earlier that morning. He took it, held on, and got it back to me.
I feel witnessed, this time in a nice way. Finally. I feel seen as a person who simply wanted to help.
My eyes well up just a little as I hold the hat to my chest.
Yeah, it means a lot.
I know Pat will come up soon, and I know I won't like what he has to say, but for now, I have my hat and this nice feeling, and it's more than I hoped for.
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Thanks for reading We Sleep at Sunset.
Laurel's Fun Facts #16: the only muscle that never tires? The heart.
—Laurel Montaze—
💜
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