Page 1

Chapter One

Ruby

Always Lock the Back Door

“You’re not going alone.”

Liv says this like it’s a fact. Like she’s announcing the weather or reading a street sign. She’s sitting on the counter next to the cash register with her shoes off and her feet dangling, holding a paper cup of wine because I don’t have wine glasses at the bakery.

“I’m not talking about this.” I wipe down the espresso machine, which doesn’t need wiping, but my hands need something to do, or they’re going to end up around her neck.

“You’re absolutely talking about this. It’s your cousin Natalie’s wedding. And your ex Josh will be there with—what’s her name? Ashley?”

“Audrey.”

She makes a sound. “Even worse. That’s a fiancée name. That’s an ‘I summer in Nantucket’ name.” Liv takes a sip and makes a face because the wine is cheap and warm, and neither of us cares. “You can’t show up solo, Ruby. Your mom will stage an intervention before the cocktail hour.”

She’s not wrong. My mother has already called twice this week. The first time to ask what I’m wearing. The second time to casually mention that her neighbor’s son just finished dental school and is, quote, very tall and has beautiful teeth. I told her I’d rather eat glass than be set up with a man whose main selling point is his teeth, and she said, “Well, at least think about it, sweetheart.”

I haven’t thought about it. I’ve thought about sixteen other things instead, most of them involving how to pay my flour supplier and whether my part-timer Jess is going to quit before or after the Fourth of July rush. I feel like my brain constantly has sixty-tabs open and there’s no margin for my dating life. Which is just fine by me.

“I’ll be fine.” I toss the rag into the sink. “I’ll drink champagne, eat cake, avoid Josh, and leave before the bouquet toss.”

Liv hops down from the counter and pads across the floor in her socks to pour more wine into her cup. We’ve been friends since college—freshman year, shared bathroom. She borrowed my shampoo without asking, and I let it go because she came back with pizza and a bottle of tequila, and we’ve been inseparable since. She’s the loudest person I know and the first one I call when things go sideways, which lately is all the time.

“Can I be honest with you?”

I lift one brow. “Can I stop you?”

She smiles. “Of course not. You’ve been saying ‘I’ll be fine’ for like eight months, and I love you, but you’re not fine. You’re the opposite of fine. You’re working twelve-hour days in a bakery that—” She stops. Catches herself. Recalibrates. “You’re running yourself into the ground, and you won’t let anyone help, and now you’re going to walk into your cousin’s wedding alone and watch your ex slow dance with Audrey and pretend it doesn’t bother you, and I just…” She downs the rest of her wine and sets the cup down. “I can’t stand the thought of that.”

My chest aches, because she’s right, and she’s being gentle about it, and Liv being gentle means she’s actually worried. And because I thought by thirty, I’d feel more qualified to be thirty. What a mess…

“It’s one weekend,” I say.

“It’s one weekend with your entire family asking why you’re alone.” She picks up her jacket from the back of the chair, and slides her shoes back on. “I’m just saying. You deserve to walk in there with someone. Even if it’s just for show.”

“Great. I’ll rent a boyfriend.”

“I mean…” She tilts her head. “There are services.”

“Goodnight, Liv.”

She grins and pulls me into a hug that lasts a beat longer than usual. Her chin hooks over my shoulder and she squeezes hard enough that I feel it in my ribs.

“Call me tomorrow. Don’t spiral.”

“I never spiral.”

“You’re spiraling right now. I can sense these things.” She pulls back and points at me. “Tomorrow. Call me.”

I lock the front door behind her and watch through the glass as she jogs to her car in the rain. She waves without turning around because she knows I’m watching, because that’s what we do, and then she’s gone, and the bakery goes quiet.

It’s the loudest kind of quiet. The kind that presses in when someone leaves and you’re suddenly the only heartbeat in the room. The espresso machine ticks as it cools. The fluorescent light overhead hums. Outside, a car passes, its headlights sweeping across the ceiling and disappearing.

I lean against the counter and pull out my phone.

There are three texts from my mom. One is a photo of the neighbor’s son—he’s, I mean, fine, he’s perfectly fine, he looks like a stock photo for a dental practice, which really isn’t a compliment, but whatever. One is a link to a dress she thinks I should wear to the wedding. The third just says: Thinking about you, sweetheart. Call me when you get a chance. Love, Mom