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“He totally knows you’re not scared,” she says, and my cheeks heat from the implication.
“He doesn’t.”
She nods. “He does. Don’t you remember him advocating with you when there was talk about shutting the entire book club down?”
I shake my head, not because I don’t remember, but because how could I ever forget. Cash was already in high school when I got into trouble with the middle school teachers because Margaret couldn’t handle horror stories. He managed to get a ton of people to sign a petition to keep our book club active.
He’s always been my champion and standing up for what he believes in has never been a struggle. It’s also one of the reasons I’m certain the man doesn’t see me the way everyone seems to think he does. He’s not the type to stand in the shadows. He goes after what he wants, and I have years of experience of him not saying a word about it to me.
“I’m sorry,” Madison says, real shame in her tone.
“For what?”
Tears start to form in her eyes but she quickly dashes them away.
“I’m sorry,” she says again, waving her hand in front of her face. “These hormones. Did I ruin TV night for you?”
“No,” I tell her, but yeah, she kind of did.
If he knows I’m not afraid of the show, then why in the world has he allowed me to do it for so long?
Chapter 5
Cash
I yawn into the crook of my elbow, shutting the patrol car door with my other hand. I miss the days of getting five hours of sleep and still managing to wake up feeling like I could take on the world. I got plenty of sleep last night, but I know it’s still going to take me another half hour or so to be fully functional.
I could’ve stayed in bed for a half an hour longer, but that would mean missing out on seeing Adalynn before my shift, and that just won’t do.
The front door to her bakery is unlocked which makes me flex my jaw a little in irritation. The bell above the door jangles, announcing my arrival, but if I were someone that meant her harm, it wouldn’t matter. As her friend, I know the back door sticks so badly that she can rarely even get the thing open. She usually has to bring her daily trash out the front door and carry it around behind the building to the dumpster in the back. It’s one of the many problems this building has. I’m sure it’s been here over a hundred years, and other than the beautification things Adalynn did to it when she bought it, it hasn’t been repaired much.
Adalynn isn’t in the front of the store, so I make my way around the counter to search for her in the back.
I dip my head and look into the humming freeze dryer to see what she’s working on today. She mentioned last week that the community took to her packaged candies without pause, and that she’s been having a hard time keeping some things in stock. The Skittles on three of the five trays she has have already split, looking like little colorful round sandwiches. The other two trays have chunks of something I don’t recognize, but I know it has to be something sweet. I helped her set up the machine while shewatched tutorials online. I recall one of them advising against mixing savory and sweet as well as raw and cooked items.
As always, the place is meticulously clean. She’s a very organized person, so the immaculate countertops make it easy to notice the pamphlets stacked on one of the prep tables.
My heart stops in my chest when I get close enough to read the title on the top one—IVF: A Step-by-Step Guide.
I blink, but the information doesn’t change.
I’ve always known that Adalynn wanted to have children, just like I’ve known I can’t see myself as a father. With the life I’ve had, I wouldn’t wish that sort of thing on anyone. I don’t know if abandonment is a hereditary trait, but I’d never take that kind of chance.
It’s just one more reason we wouldn’t make a good couple. I can’t give her the things she’s always wanted in life, but these innocuous brochures feel like a sharp jab into my back.
She hasn’t once mentioned wanting to get pregnant this way. It feels like a form of betrayal because we’ve always told each other everything… well, mostly everything. She’d probably gasp and ask me to leave if she were privy to some of the thoughts I have about her.
“You’re early today.”
I spin to face her, the pink flush to her cheeks from being inside her walk-in cooler making me lose a little more of my sanity.
“IVF?” I ask, my tone more accusatory than it has any right to be.
Her lips form a flat line as she walks to another prep table. She doesn’t face me again until she places the batch of icing on the table and pulls off the lid.
I know her routine enough to know that she made the base buttercream icing yesterday, and she’ll color and flavor it this morning to match whatever treats she has on the menu.
“It’s probably not going to happen,” she says, sadness filling her eyes.
