“Okay.” He was right. We needed to talk more. “By the way ... Ember told me about Willow ... and the dad thing. I think you’re right, she does need to talk to her parents.”
Bo let out a long exhale. “I’m glad she told someone else. She’s been carrying that shit around for weeks and it’s pulling her down big time.”
“I thought hippies were supposed to be drama free,” I joked.
Bo yawned. “Looks like those girls are Hippie 2.0, the Gossip Girl edition.”
I laughed. “I hate that I know exactly what you’re talking about. Later.”
“See ya tonight.”
Walking back through the house, I found Ember sleeping on the couch. Clearly the taxing recording schedule was starting to wear on all of us. Just a few more weeks and we’d be able to take a break while Willow produced a chunk of the tracks. We could take a listen and decide how we wanted to continue.
During my drive back to my apartment I played a mental game of “open it” or “toss it” in regards to the letter. There was always secret option number three, I suppose, which was to save it and open it when I was ready, but I felt like a definitive decision was the only way to handle this.
It was just a letter.
Just a letter.
Just words.
Not just words. They were from Rae.
Shit.
Open the damn thing.
Back in La Jolla, I found Georgia wiping down tables in the bakery. I knocked on the door so she’d let me in. She did it with a smile, though she looked tired.
“Did you, uh, have people in here?” I asked as she locked the door behind me.
“No, it was just me and my mom.”
“Oh, sorry I missed her. How is she?”
“She’s good.”
“Hey,” I put my hands in my pockets and walked through the seating area, “how long has this place been open?” I put air quotes around the last word, given it wasn’t open, as such, but just functional.
She chuckled. “About six months. I renovated this space at the same time I did the apartments upstairs.”
“What was down here before?”
“Oh,” she sighed and put her hands on her hips, “over the years it was a lot of things. My dad leased the space to a bunch of retailers. Clothing stores, a bait and tackle shop—that one was gross—and last year there was a coffee shop here.”
“I know you’re not, like, officially open for walk-in customers but ... you should name it. Be proud of it.”
“If I name it then people will have all kinds of expectations.” She walked back into the kitchen and started washing dishes.
I followed her, digging a clean towel out of the drawer and drying as she talked. “What’s wrong with expectations?”
“More ways for me to disappoint people in the end.” She didn’t make eye contact. She was good at that.
“More ways? What end?” I was pushing her a little, I realized, but I was taking slight advantage of my emotional upper hand given all the guilt she said she had. I wasn’t doing it with cruel intentions, but this girl had some tightly woven layers.
“Regan...”
“All right, all right, sorry. Hey, those cupcakes are gorgeous. Did you make those?” I pointed to the counter, immediately realizing the idiocy to my question. “I mean...”
“Ha! Yeah. Well, my mom actually made the cupcakes. I made the frosting and decorated them after she left.”
“She bakes, too?”
“That’s where I learned. It was like therapy for both of us when I was little and things got tense. You have to concentrate to bake. Your mind can’t wander. By the time you’re finished you’ve spent lots of time thinking about something other than your problems and you get to eat something delicious. It really is the ultimate win.” She smiled and carefully plucked two from the cake stand and put them on a plate.
“These are gluten-free, too?”
“Everything in here is. We’ve been over this.”
“Huh. I didn’t realize gluten-free stuff could look so ... good. Smells good, too. I totally trust how it will taste.”
She smiled. “Who said you’re going to have any?”
“I did.”
“The brilliance about gluten-free baking is it’s even more complicated than regular baking. You have all different kinds of flours in varying amounts, and weirder ingredients like xanthan gum to contend with. In the end, though, the complicated equation gives the same beautiful product.” She held one of the cupcakes in front of her, admiring it.
The back of my neck heated. “Just like you.”
Her face flushed as she looked at me. “Complicated. Yes.”
“And beautiful.” My voice shook.
I had no idea why I just blurted that out. She was beautiful, more so with each minute I spent with her. Her gloves-off, unapologetic personality was laced around this hollow space she refused to let be filled with vulnerability, though it trickled in anyway.
“You think I’m beautiful?” She sounded put off.
I nodded. “You are.”
“I’m a lot of things, Regan. Beauty is for the soft spirited girls, not the soft-bottomed ones.”
“Take a compliment, will you? It won’t hurt, trust me.”
“It might. Let’s go.” She stuck a toothpick in the center of the two cupcakes she’d placed on a plate and pulled out plastic wrap.