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Bellamy looks down at the now decimated plate of baked goods she set in front of me, and a satisfied smile curls her lips. She takes a delicate drink of her cup of coffee, eyeing me over the rim of her mug that reads ‘I bake so I don’t kill people’ with her eyebrow arched.
“I take it they’re good?” There’s an innocence in her tone that is all fake.
Bellamy might be rather shy when it comes to strangers, but we’ve known each other since elementary school. Along with Sparrow, we’ve always been close and gone through all of life’s stages together. I frown as I think about Sparrow. I haven’t heard from her in far too long. Contact with her has become increasingly difficult or maybe I haven’t been trying hard enough.
“What?” Bellamy’s tone takes on a bit of panic, “Were they not good? Should I not add them to the menu?”
I swipe my finger along the plate, trying to find any crumbs, but knowing there aren’t any. The three new flavors of scones she had me try the moment I walked into Bites of Bliss were delicious. Everything she bakes is. I don’t know why she still doubts herself.
“Am I not searching for any little morsel left right now?” When she scowls at me, wanting and needing me to be straight with her, I giggle. “Bell,” my voice softens, “they were delicious. The flavors came through and none of them were overpowering. I know you’ve been agonizing over the recipe because you always do, but these are ready.” I point to the chalkboard hanging behind the sales counter. “You need to add them right now.”
She blows out a relieved breath and leans back in her chair. “Fucking thank you,” she sighs, the relief evident in her tone. She narrows her eyes at me accusingly. “Why the scowl then? You know I thrive on butter and praise, Reb.”
I smile at her and shake my head. I do know that about her. She believes that butter should be a food group and I can’t say I disagree, especially when she uses it to make the things she does.
What I don’t like is when she then talks down about herself and tries to use her generous curves as a reason that she shouldn’t like butter quite so much. She has no idea how gorgeous she is. Sparrow is the same way.
It kills me that my best friends, women I consider my sisters, don’t see their entire worth and beauty. They aren’t just beautiful on the outside either. They’re both amazing people who deserve the world.
I know I’m attractive, but my vibe is completely different than theirs. They both exude an innocence I left in my wake a long fucking time ago. If I ever had it to begin with.
Most people look at me and think I’m the one who doesn’t fit in with my little band of sisterhood. It’s a combination of the tattoos and resting bitch face I’ve perfected over the years. I’d much rather exude an attitude which screams ‘I don’t give a fuck’ than have someone think they can walk all over me.
It’s served me well, except for when people make assumptions about me really being a bitch, or that I am using my friends, or that I’m not as kind as they are. We’re different, sure, but we’re also the same in many ways. I simply developed a different armor than they did.
It’s worked in my favor because I’ve used it to protect my friends more than once. No, I’m not the kind of person to ever get into a physical altercation, but I sure as fuck will make someone feel about two feet tall with my words. Only when warranted.
“I was thinking about Sparrow,” I admit to my friend and her face falls.
Bellamy nods, understanding lighting up her eyes. “I don’t know what’s going on with her anymore. She’s been pulling away more and more lately. I try to call and text her every day, but she doesn’t always respond.”
“When she does, it’s only a few words?” Bellamy nods, her eyes sad, in answer to my question. I sigh. “Yeah, that’s how it’s been for me too. I don’t know, maybe I haven’t been trying hard enough.”
Bellamy reaches across the table and gives my hand a squeeze. “She knows we’re both here for her, always. Maybe it’s something with her family. You know how quiet she is about them.” Her entire body shudders. “I swear something’s not right there, but unless she asks for help…,” she trails off and shrugs, even though I can see in her eyes how much she hates writing off her own concerns.
“I know,” I sound defeated.
It’s a feeling I hate. I don’t think strength means you don’t feel your emotions or any crap like that, but I do hate feeling like I can’t do something for a person I love. Sparrow deserves to know what happiness feels again.
She used to. Before her father died. Before her mother got remarried. Before her stepbrother came into her life.
That’s when she stopped letting us hang out at her house and stopped talking about anything going on at home. I’ve tried to talk to her about it, offering my support in whatever way I could, but she always shuts me down.
Always.
For someone rather timid, she certainly has no problem shutting down my concerns.
If they’re hurting her, I’ll figure out a way to kill them and discard their bodies. I cringe internally. I really need to stop listening to true crime podcasts before I go to bed. It’s starting to make me bloodthirsty.
Or maybe I’ll just do anything for my friend.
Yeah, let’s go with that.
Thinking about whatever Sparrow is going through, when she won’t ask for help or open up to me, is depressing. Not that I’ll stop trying. Hell fucking no.
But it does mean I need to refocus.
I smile at my friend, the action a little forced at first until it smooths out as I glance around the bakery she’s built and has been thriving in for the year it’s been open. “I’m proud of you, Bell,” my voice filled with sincerity. “You did it.”
