Finding Fate

by Ariel Ellens

“Get some? Seriously?”

  Colt touches my hand. “I always get what I want.”

  “Please,” I say and pull my hand back. I wipe it on my apron for good measure. Yes, it’s childish, but oh well. “You can try.”

  “Fair enough,” Colt says.

  Before I can react, he’s on the move. He’s at the end of the counter a few seconds later, walking to the back of the counter. I dive at Colt, wanting to block the space allowing him behind the counter but that only leaves one thing to happen.

  Colt crashes into me. Well, I crash into him. Or, actually, we crash into each other.

  I stand with my hands at my sides, looking up at him. He’s standing with a cocky grin on his face. His aroma is blanketing me, leaving me feel ways I really don’t want to feel right now. He leans back enough so he could cross his arms. Yes, I see the muscle. Yes, I see the tattoos.

  “Do you have any piercings?” I ask, hoping to take another jab at him thanks to Stevie.

  “Do you?” he asks.

  “Do you see any?” I ask.

  He smiles. “No, but there’s just so much clothing between us right now. I bet you’re a wild one under that little apron...”

  He reaches down and behind me, pulling at the string.

  Why am I not slapping him? Punching him? Screaming...?

  Because I like it.

  My apron falls to the floor. There’s something so sexual about it that I scoff and step back. I’m afraid if I don’t, I’m going to jump Colt. Right there, in the bakery.

  Oh wow, what a fantasy that would be...

  “What are you really doing here?” I ask.

  “Okay, fine. I’m not here for bread. Like I said, it sucks. Horribly.”

  “You’re an ass,” I growl.

  “Maybe. You’d have to spend more time with me to find that out. Outside of the bakery, outside our clothes.”

  “Keep dreaming.”

  “As long as you’re in my dreams.”

  Damn, he’s quick, smooth, and hot.

  “Truthfully,” Colt says, “I came in here just to see you. Good enough for me, for now. Have a good one, Bella.”

  There he goes with that nickname crap again. But I don’t say a word to him. I don’t stop him, I don’t run after him, I simply just stand there and watch him walk out of the bakery. My body is enraged, stuck between fighting being turned on and wanting to punch him. He’s insensitive. He’s an ass. But he’s also right. Maybe if I could get him outside the bakery, I could ask him questions about his business. And the shooting at his nightclub.

  Maybe.

  I patiently wait for the sound of the motorcycle to kick up and when I hear it, I swear, I’m drooling. I want to be on the back of the motorcycle with Colt.

  He starts to cruise down the street, going slow, and then suddenly makes a wide turn. He’s turning around. That’s when I see Stevie, walking along the sidewalk across the street.

  Oh, shit.

  I rush from the counter to the door.

  What the hell is going to happen?

  My hand is on the door handle and I think about leaving the bakery. But I don’t. For two reasons. One, because the bakery is open and I shouldn’t leave. Two, I want to see what Colt and Stevie have for each other. The real truth as to why I’m still standing in the bakery is the latter.

  Between Colt’s muscles and attitude and Stevie’s lip ring and hair, this is a freaking mess. I remind myself, again, that Stevie is in love with Becca-Ann and even if she doesn’t like him back, Stevie is off limits.

  Colt takes off his helmet and holds it tucked under his left arm. It makes his arm look even bigger. He leans on the motorcycle, keeping his right foot to the ground. Stevie stands facing Colt, his hands in his pockets, not really caring that Colt is bigger, stronger, and on a motorcycle.

  Their mouths are moving.

  What are they saying?

  Are they arguing?

  Are they arguing about me?

  Gosh, if they fight... it’ll hurt me. If Colt hits Stevie because of what he saw between Stevie and I, that would be horrible. How would I explain that? Imagine if Stevie had a black eye and I told Becca-Ann, because I tell her everything, and then she asks why Colt hit Stevie...

  Then I realize, I never told Becca-Ann about Colt. I know our texting conversation was short lived, but still, I should have mentioned Colt. But I didn’t.

  Why?

  I see Colt’s right hand move and I cringe. To my surprise, Colt grabs Stevie’s shoulder and he squeezes it. It doesn’t seem violent and a second later, Colt’s hand is off Stevie and he puts his helmet back on. Colt fires up his motorcycle, giving me that warm butterfly feeling, that starts in my stomach and travels elsewhere to my body. He turns back around and takes off.

  I push on the door, tempted to ask Stevie what Colt said. Stevie looks up at me, his face looking depressed. He looks deflated. As he stares at me, I freeze, my heart starting to break for him. Then I do something so stupid... I wave.

  Why the hell am I waving?

  But I am.

  I’m waving.

  Stevie waves back and then continues walking.

  Again, thanks to the bakery and the circumstances that put me here, I’m trapped. I can’t chase Stevie down. I can’t track Colt down. I’m here, until the place closes. And after that...

  I think about yesterday, my mother.

  I need to check on her.

  My last image of her was her bottle of whiskey being shattered and she falling to the floor. Not to mention she had a lit cigarette too. Maybe the house burned down.

  Yeah, like I could get that lucky...

  The thought brings tears to my eyes.

  -Chapter 6-

  I’m in my car, driving towards the house. I hate referring it to as my mother’s house because it’s not hers. She once had a house, a house she rented. It was beautiful, and I had my own bedroom. But she lost that after forgetting to pay the rent for a few months. Grammie and Grandpa stepped in and tried to pay to rent for the remainder of the lease but the landlord was done.

  Off we went, to an apartment.

  A small, cramped apartment, where it didn’t matter if you paid the rent or not because it was just that kind of place.

  When I finally moved into Grammie and Grandpa’s house, it was a relief, like being saved. Even when my grandparents put me to work, in the house and in the bakery, I took it as still living better than alone with my mother.

  She took the house after they passed, her sister so disconnected from the family, she really didn’t care. I never understood how things became such a giant mess and I probably never will. Not when the only person who can tell me is always heavily induced thanks to drinking.

  When I get to the house, I hurry inside. I have no time to waste today and I refuse to look at the deteriorating conditions of the place. The first thing I notice inside isn’t the still-there overflowing ashtrays, but the subtle hint of something apple... no, cinnamon. Apple cinnamon, maybe.

  The television is on in the living room, the late day news playing.

  I creep towards the kitchen and when my feet go from carpet to tile, I see the whiter spot on the floor where water had spilled. That meant she let it just go, letting it dry instead of taking a minute to actually clean the floor.

  I see my mother standing at the sink. She’s humming, some string of random notes that are jazzy and give me shivers. They’re the notes Grammie used to hum all the time. Sadly, my mother sounds like Grammie and sometimes she looks just like her. There’s honor in being in Grammie and Grandpa’s bloodline but nobody seems to care but me. The destruction of a family is such a painful thing to endure.

  “Mom?” I ask.

  She turns, holding a glass, a half smile on her face.

  To my shock, the glass has water in it.

  Water?

  “Isabella, hey,” she says.

  Her hair is pulled back, looking better than yesterday but still in dire need of being washed. S
he’s wearing different clothes than yesterday and her eyes are big and clear.

  She’s not drunk.

  Not today at least.

  “How are you feeling?” I ask.

  “Fine,” she replies. “Just thinking about going to the grocery store. Don’t have anything to eat or drink here. Funny how time flies. How busy I am these days.”

  “Busy...?”

  “The bakery,” she says, almost confused. “The place is like having two full-time jobs.”

  My jaw drops.

  Seriously?

  “But that’s okay,” she says, “you keep baking and I’ll keep managing the books and the bakery. Speaking of which, did you go to the bank today? We really need to get our deposits on a daily basis.”

  “Not today. The bank isn’t op...”

  “I can handle it for you then,” she says and waves a hand. She then puts up a finger and drinks her water like a shot, smacking her lips together. Her mind is probably trying to convince her it is whiskey. She puts the glass in the sink and keeps talking. “I’ll stop by tomorrow and get all the cash. That way I can have the deposit slips. So there’s no confusion.”

  I hold off from snapping, but the thought of my mother taking all the cash on a regular basis makes me cringe. If that’s the case, the bakery will be closed in a few months. There’s no way she’ll manage a thing.

  “You know,” I say, “yesterday...”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry about that,” my mother says. Her voice is now the sweet consoling mother that she thinks she can be. “I was so sick. I think I got a touch of that bug going around. You know my friend, Sally? Her father got that bug and was in the hospital for two days. Horrible little thing.”

  A bug?

  A sickness bug?

  Really?

  “You were drinking,” I say, my bottom lip already quivering.

  There was something about confronting my mother like this that makes me feel weak. Like I’m afraid. Like my subconscious memory has something I can’t envision. My hands are in fists, my palms sweating. I wish I were back in the bakery, with Stevie and Colt.

  “Sweetie,” my mother says, “I had a quick drink, okay? When I was younger, that’s what people did... whiskey was your grandfather’s cure all.”

  “You were smoking in the house.”

  “If I had a quick cigarette, I’m sure I opened the window. What is this? Did you come here to criticize me?”

  “No,” I say. I hate myself right now. “I’m just... tired. The bakery is getting hard.”

  My mother laughs. “Welcome to growing up. Work is hard.”

  I’m not really sure if my mother has ever worked a full-time job in her life. The faint memories I have of my father include him working long days and hours while my mother stayed home with me. Then the drinking got so much between then two they split up. But that’s a lifetime ago.

  “I’m worried though,” I say. Maybe now she’s sober I can sneak in a quick business meeting. “I need more help, to promote and...”

  “Your grandparents never needed help,” my mother says. “And what do you think, TV ads are free? Why don’t you tell your little friends to drag their friends in for a cookie or something after school?”

  After school?

  Her tones implies that I’m in grade school.

  How old does my mother think I am?

  I’m afraid to ask because the truth might kill me.

  “I was thinking of maybe expanding a little,” I say. “Like if we served coffee... have people come in and sit. Put some music on...”

  My mother rubs her thumb and pointer finger together, with a sly grin on her face, her eyes annoyed at me for speaking.

  “That all costs money,” she says. “You know that.”

  Yeah, I know that. I also know that all the money she’s taken from the bakery could have paid for everything I want to do.

  But it’s good to see her sober for today. It’s like picking your battles wisely.

  “I just wanted to check on you,” I say. “You had me scared yesterday.”

  “That’s sweet,” my mother says. “But I’m fine. Just a little bug.”

  “A bug,” I whisper. “Okay. Well, be careful going to the store. I have to get home now...”

  My mother nods.

  Then we stand there, uncomfortably. What I’m doing is waiting for her to say goodbye or tell me she loves me.

  But she doesn’t.

  It’s just not in her to say it to me. And for the longest time I can remember, I don’t say it to her.

  -Chapter 7-

  I don’t cry when I drive away from the house, but I haven’t cried in a long time driving away from that house. I know what my mother is doing, her usual style of damage control. She probably woke up on the floor and realized how much of a mess she had become. So she spent the day taking care of herself to put on a face as though nothing was wrong.

  Remember, she had a bug. A stomach bug and nothing else.

  I grab my cell phone as I sit at a red light and scroll for Stevie’s number. I tap the button and send him a text.

  Where r u?

  The light turns green and as I drive, Stevie texts me back. I hate to look at my phone while driving so I have to suffer in pain, wondering what he has said. Yeah, it’s not that dramatic but I can’t get the image of Colt gripping Stevie’s shoulder out of my mind. I swear I’m normally not a big snoop but this is driving my wild. I need to know.

  When I get to my apartment I sit in the parking and look at my phone.

  Miss me?

  Oh Stevie... all of a sudden he thinks he’s a tough guy because of a lip ring. Then again, maybe that kind of attitude will work for Becca-Ann.

  I text him back, quickly, not thinking, and know my words could have more than one meaning.

  I need to see you, right now. Come over.

  Yikes.

  Stevie texts back with a winking face and I cringe. I hope he doesn’t think anything is going to happen. Between us. At the bakery, when I was holding his hand, that was just to make Colt jealous. Right? Nothing more than that.

  I pull myself from my car and rush up to my apartment. I need a shower and if Stevie is coming from his house, I have fifteen minutes to take one. Certainly not long enough to wash the entire day off my body but it’s better than nothing.

  The second I turn the water off, I hear knocking at my door.

  Shit, he’s here.

  I grab a towel and start to dry off when Stevie texts me.

  I’m outside. Let me in.

  My fingers are at it again, working before my brain can properly edit.

  Just got out of the shower, give me a second, I’m naked.

  Ah! The last thing I want is Stevie to be thinking about me naked. I have to hurry and find clothes. Sometimes it pays to not be super organized and have a clean room. I find jeans and shirt, then grab a brush as I walk towards the door. I brush my hair twice so it doesn’t look like a knotty mess.

  Stevie’s standing there with a grin on his face, still playing with his lip ring.

  “Couldn’t wait for me?” he asks.

  My cheeks turn red. “Stop it. I need to talk to you.”

  He steps into the apartment and I feel strange. I feel guilty almost, like if Becca-Ann knew he was here, she would get mad.

  I continue to brush my hair, hoping Stevie doesn’t take it as a flirty, sexual thing. I don’t care if he does, I need to brush my hair.

  “Today,” I say.

  Stevie laughs. “That was interesting.”

  “That guy, Colt...”

  “He’s an interesting one,” Stevie says. “How did you pick him up?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Colt. How did you snag him? Or did he snag you? Was he coming to the bakery for an afternoon quickie?”

  My face is eight shades of red now. Here I thought maybe Stevie was into me but he thinks I’m into Colt.

  “No, no,” I say, “it’s not like that. He litera
lly showed up yesterday out of nowhere. He started talking to me and then left. He owns cafés and stuff.”

  “You know all this?”

  “He told me.” I opt to leave out my research online.

  “So there’s nothing...?”

  “No!” I cry out. “Is that what he told you?”

  “That’s what I thought,” Stevie says. “You were obviously trying to make him jealous.”

  “Well, yeah,” I say. “But not because... of why you think...”

  “Then why?” I ask.

  I have no answer. I’m stuck.

  Shit.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I say. “I wanted to make him mad and chase him away. That’s all. I thought he was going to hit you though.”

  “He could have tried,” Stevie says.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “When you two were talking...”

  Stevie smiles and shakes his head. “I don’t think so.” He walks from me to the kitchen. He opens the fridge and looks around. “You seriously have nothing to eat.”

  “Sorry,” I say.

  “But you cook for a living.”

  “No. I bake. At a bakery. That doesn’t mean I come home and make gourmet meals.”

  “Then I regret coming over,” Stevie says. “My mother is making chicken parm.”

  Speaking of which... “Yeah, when are you moving out of your parents basement?”

  Stevie stands and closes the fridge. He looks at me, looking upset. “Why would I leave? I have the basement to myself. I pay to live there you know.”

  “I’m not trying to offend you,” I say. “If you had an apartment, when Becca-Ann gets home...”

  “Oh, great. More advice about her.”

  “More advice? What does that mean?”

  “Nothing,” Stevie says. “I better get going.”

  He storms past me and I reach for him. He tries to keep going and I pull, spinning him around. Our bodies collide together in a way I never thought they would. His hands are suddenly touching my back. We’re both stiff at boards, unsure of what this means. I imagine Colt before I imagine Becca-Ann.

  “Stevie,” I say, “you come to me for advice all the time...”

  “Sorry,” he says. “I just wish she were here. I can’t handle it...”