"Aurora, you know Wilma? She runs the grocery store with her husband Harold. I made a quick trip there yesterday, picking up a few things I missed that we needed for dinner tonight." Her back to me, my mother stirs a pot of boiling potatoes, her chestnut curls tied back with a yellow ribbon swishing across her back with the action.

My eyes narrow with suspicion; I have a pretty good idea of the topic she is dancing her way towards. But I will happily play clueless for her line of indirect questioning.

"Of course I know Mrs. Vale. Did she happen to mention when that order I made for the bakery would come in?" I dip a carrot in the ranch, eyes tracking the movement nonchalantly. "She said sometime this week, but if it was Mr. Vale who made the order, you know how he is with technology; it could be arriving any day now, just not necessarily to Rushmore, Montana. Last time Quinn made the order with him, and he sent it to what was it? Kansas, I think?"

My mother's shoulders rise; I can picture her always-present smile becoming strained with annoyance; they fall with a released breath.

She knows exactly what I'm doing, avoiding the topic she wants to direct our conversation to. 

Leaving her no choice but to ask me what she wants to know.

"You know I don't think she did, but she did mention a certain Trevor boy coming back to town. Now which one was it? Ah! That's right, it's the younger one who played baseball professionally for a bit; his name is Cage, right? Anyway, apparently his first stop back into town was to our fairly new staple, a cute little bakery called Sugar Rush. You've heard of it, right?" Sarcasm drips from the words like melted sugar, liquid when it boils, hardening when it cools, much like her anger. She sets the spoon down on the counter, spinning around with her arms crossed, her white gold wedding band catching the kitchen lights with every tap of her fingers on her forearm. "Now I wonder who he was going there to see, because surely it wasn't my daughter. No, she would have told me if she conversed with the father of her children, the father of my grandchildren."

Okay, that's my cue to stop.

"Mom, I'm sorry. I should have told you sooner, but it's just been a hectic week, okay? I get that you're concerned; how could you not be? It's been eight years since Cage was in town and just as long since we've spoken, but you have to remember that that is my fault. He wants a chance to get to know his boys; Cage isn't the bad guy in this situation; I am." I set down my half-eaten baby carrot, harshly shoving back hair that's a replica of my mother's.

My parents have always been on my side. Since the day I told them I was pregnant, they were disappointed at first. Once they got over their disappointment, they were endlessly supportive, helping me with everything that I allowed them to.

Still, I know that a small part of them was on Cage's side as well.

They knew, know, that he wasn't a bad guy, far from it. Just that we were young, dumb, and a little reckless that fateful Fourth of July. Out of fear, I never gave Cage a chance to stand by me, to help raise our children. My parents and I had gotten into a few small arguments over the years, my father and I especially.

Said that Cage is well on his way to being a grown man and that he should take responsibility for his actions. 

Still, no matter how much he told me that, I never tried to contact Cage, believing that I was doing the right thing.

Just like back then I thought I was doing what was right, I know that I am now too.

"I know Aurora, but still he's not the same boy he was years ago. He lived a life away from this tiny town that constantly feels like it's in this bubble from the rest of the world. The days feel longer here, the nights not so lonely. Rushmore is like a whole little world of its own, and that life of his away from here shaped him into who he is now, someone that you might not necessarily know as well as you think. I just want you to be cautious is all, all right?" My mother walks over to me, placing a palm to my cheek, her thumb softly stroking.

I lean into her soft touch, inhaling the subtle scent of her apple blossom perfume she dabs on her wrist every morning.

"I will, I promise," I reach up, laying my hand over hers.

With one last brush of her thumb, she drops her hand. Turning back to the steaming pot of starchy goodness resting on the stovetop, grabbing a colander to drain the water from the potatoes.

"Good, now go get those children to wash their hands up before dinner."

"Dad too?"

"I stand by what I said." Humor with a touch of seriousness laces the words she tosses over her shoulder.

I shake my head with a smile on my face as I leave the kitchen to do her bidding.

She's not wrong.

──── • 🧁 • ────

The frantic buzz, like disturbed bees, of the bakery mellows out to a gentle hum after the craziness of Thanksgiving comes and goes. This gap between holidays is a welcome reprieve, the calm before the storm, so to speak.

Quinn and I are going to enjoy every last second of this temporary peace until Christmas.

I won't lie; part of me misses the hecticness. It was nice to focus all my attention on that anxiety, whether we would get orders done in time, instead of the first official meeting between the twins and Cage.

Which is happening.

Tonight.

I'm in the process of assembling a layered cake when I hear a whoosh, the sound of an object cutting through the air, and the next thing I know I'm being smacked in the back.

"Hey! What have I done to deserve a beating?" I ask, spinning around to stop the onslaught of an oven mitt beating, courteously bestowed upon me by the one and only Quinn Gunner.

She stands before me.

Strawberry blonde hair twisted up into a bun, a few wayward strands escaping her nearly immaculate updo. 

Mossy eyes narrow, and raspberry lips purse.

"What have you done? Huh, I don't know. Maybe leaving me to hear through the grapevine that your baby daddy is back in town! Oh, oh, and not only that, but you set up a meeting between our children and him without telling me!" Quinn smacks me on the shoulder again before slapping down the oven mitt on the counter. 

"Ah, yes. I'm sorry, I totally forgot you're the one who carried them for a little over nine months and spent eighteen hours in labor to bring them into this world." Sarcasm drips from my words like the icing I plan to add around the top edge of the cake.

"How dare you forget, but that's not the point right now! I mean... I know he looked just like Knox and Kohl when I interrupted your conversation, but I thought maybe he could have been their uncle or some family member that just found out about their existence and randomly wanted to get to know them. Not that the latter really makes sense, and my gosh, is he hot! I knew I did well when picking you out for a friend; it's because you have good taste."

I snorted, mentally picturing Quinn going to a store and browsing her limited friend choices here in Rushmore.

"You say that like you picked me out of a Friend's R Us store. Besides, it was either me or the bank clerk; your options were pretty limited." I tell her, spinning back around to reposition the cinnamon cake layer I misplaced.

I don't even have to look at her to know she's shuddering; she is also traumatized by the bank clerk gossip we heard.

"Oh gosh, you're right. Mrs. Farley is a sweet lady, but I really cannot look her in the eyes now. She finds it absolutely hilarious. I stutter in her presence, Rory, stutter! Besides, you should know that there is a no-return policy for this friendship, and no upgrades are available. So you're stuck with me just as much as I am with you." Quinn sighs, like this friendship is some huge burden she is willing to bear, but not without complaints.

There's not a doubt in my mind that she doesn't feel that way; our friendship—despite it catching both of us off guard—is not one we could live without. She's my rock, and while I know that I could have managed my crazy life and this bakery on my own, I'm glad I didn't have to; there's nothing better than being able to comfortably work side by side with your best friend. 

We might bicker from time to time, but at the end of the day, I know nothing will change our friendship.

"I should have told you our children are meeting their dad; just the bakery had been so hectic the past week. We both have been exhausted, and there really hasn't been time to tell you everything, what with the dozens of pies that need to be baked and the hundreds of dinner rolls, along with other things."

We joke all the time about Knox and Kohl being our children. Still, I have no doubt if something were to happen to me, Quinn wouldn't hesitate for a second to step up and become what those boys' need in my absence. She really is like their second mom, you know, the kind that likes to bribe their children with gifts and such for their love and affection. 

I'm kidding; she doesn't have to spend a dime for their love; she already has it.

Quinn just likes to spoil them.

"We have been quite busy, huh?" Quinn lightly knocks her hip against mine, picking up a piping bag to help me frost another cake that I had finished crumb coating. "Did it go well? I know you've regretted not telling him sooner, and we're worried that with all the time that's passed, he would have been angry."

I gently scrape the side of the cake, removing excess frosting that's not needed for a crumb coat. Picking up a piping bag with cream cheese frosting, I carefully pipe small peaks around the top. 

This cake is one of our customers favorites, a rusticly frosted, cinnamon roll inspired cake, one of Quinn's amazing creations.

She's frosting small peaks along the bottom edge of the cake, waiting patiently for me to answer her. Knowing I just need a second to organize my thoughts on the matter. 

"He was upset, but truthfully he was mostly upset that I was the only one whose life had to change. I know in my heart that he would have done right by those boys'; there was never a doubt in my mind about that. I was mostly worried that he would silently grow to resent me; baseball was his life back then. It wasn't simply his ticket out of this town without using a dime of his parents money. He loved, loves, baseball, like baking is my escape that was his. How could I be the one to take that away from him? I couldn't move to be closer to his school, and there really weren't any schools with a team that could rival Vanderbilt around here." I readjust my grip on the bag, and frost peaks along the bottom. "I will always regret not telling him, but I really thought I was doing the right thing, even though it was wrong too."

Quinn sets down her bag, spinning the cake stand to admire her work.

"It doesn't matter if the choice you made was right or wrong. Knox and Kohl still had a good life so far, right? You raised them well; those boys' are the most respectful and kindest kids I have ever met. You did good by them, and now Cage gets the chance to do the same. He can be mad at you all he wants for keeping them from him, but he can never doubt all you've done for those kids and the amazing job you've done raising them up to this point."

I did well, didn't I?

I wanted my kids to grow up happy and healthy foremost, but I also wanted to instill in them manners. To treat others how you wish to be treated, that violence isn't the answer to solve problems.

Though I wasn't completely against them hitting a kid back if one of my sons got hit first.

I won't outright tell them to hit back, but I'll silently be proud of them for standing up for themselves. If they see something that's not right, I want my boys' to say so.

"So when's the first meet-up?"

Quinn takes the empty frosting bowl and other dirty utensils to the sink and starts to wash them.

"Neat freak," I mumble.

"I heard that!" She calls over her shoulder. "So when's the first meeting?"

"Today, at the diner."

Quinn whips around, whisk dripping water onto the floor, her eyes wide with surprise.

"Today, today?"

I nod, carefully removing the pieces of parchment paper I put underneath the cake to protect the cake stand from frosting. Just a neat trick my mother taught me to keep our cake stands looking clean and the cake pretty sitting on them.

"This is short notice! Now how am I supposed to hide in a booth to eavesdrop? Wait, what time are you going to The Maple Tree?" Quinn mumbles a curse at the watery mess she's made with the whisk and turns back around, scrubbing twice as hard now.

Like I said, she's a neat freak; everything has to be clean and in its proper place.

She can't come over to my house without cleaning. I went to the bathroom once and came back to the kitchen to find her in the linen closet doing laundry.

Even though she drives me slightly crazy with her everything-has-to-be-clean mindset, I wouldn't change a thing about her.

"Five thirty. Why do you need to eavesdrop? At least half the people at The Maple Tree tonight already will be."

"You're right; still, you know how much I hate secondhand gossip. But fine, I get what you're implying: I solemnly swear not to show up to lurk in a sticky booth like some greasy PI from a bad soap opera. Since I won't be there to encourage you... Tonight will go fine, I promise."

"I hope so; also, the booths aren't sticky."

"Tell that to my dress that got ruined by three different kinds of syrup," Quinn calls over her shoulder, gently waving a spatula.

I laugh, and the worries for later drift off with the sound.

──── • 🧁 • ────

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