Page 23 of Bed and Breakup (Dial Delights #15)

Robin

When my alarm goes off, it feels like I have to swim through a vat of syrup to wake up.

I can’t even move my arm to reach my phone.

As I crack open my eyes, I realize the heavy feeling isn’t just in my head.

Molly, Ms. No Touching, is spooning me. Her body is tucked against my back, one arm stretched under my neck, the other wrapped around my middle, our legs tangled together.

Apparently I wasn’t the only one sleeping heavily; she’s snoring so loudly I can feel the vibrations through my pillow.

I shift to silence the alarm, and Molly’s snores come to an abrupt halt. It takes her about two seconds to realize where she is, then another second to launch herself out of bed.

“What…I…You…” she slurs, squinting at me through sleep-fogged eyes.

“Good morning, sunshine.” I roll over to face her, languidly stretching as if waking up to her snuggling with me didn’t throw me at all.

Inwardly, I’m freaking out that we can so easily slide back together after years apart.

I logically want this to mean nothing, yet I’ve got some kind of uncontrollable oxytocin rush making me feel ridiculously cheerful.

But playing it cool gives me the upper hand.

And besides, it’s pretty clear who instigated the spooning.

Molly looks down, seeming to just now realize that she’s not wearing pants. Tugging at her shirt, she says, “I didn’t…we said we…”

“I never could understand you before your morning coffee,” I say, enjoying making Molly squirm. “Why don’t you get back under the covers and I’ll make a pot?” I point to the coffee maker on my dresser.

I see her internal battle through the shifting expression on her face.

She desperately wants the coffee, but she’s also trying to be mad at me for something that clearly wasn’t my fault.

There’s embarrassment in there too, and maybe a tiny yearning to crawl back into bed and snuggle a little longer.

She’s trying to hate me right now, but she’s just as well rested as I am, and it’s hard to be angry when you’re so freshly cuddled.

I’m tickled that all of this is as easy for me to read as a recipe.

Even after years apart, I’m still fluent in Molly.

“I have to go,” she blurts out before turning tail and running.

Feeling a little guilty for toying with her for breaking her own rules, I call out, “I’ll bring you a cup of coffee when it’s ready!”

—

I’ve got the day off from Counterculture, and the weather is gorgeous, so I focus on gardening.

The quicker I can spruce up the yards and move on to the rest of the inn, the sooner we can sell it and I can get out of here and back on my feet somewhere else.

Not the Pacific Northwest. I’ve worn out my welcome there.

I can try somewhere safer, closer to Arkansas but still with a decent culinary scene.

Nashville. Atlanta. Chicago, maybe, if I can stand the winters.

The couple at the garden store loaded me up with seedlings for the flowers, fruits, and veggies I want to replant.

When it comes to produce, I want fast-growing stuff I can sell to Jesse: leafy greens, radishes, strawberries, cucumbers, tomatoes.

Ozark tomatoes really are special. It’s the rocky soil, the mountain minerality.

I’m not a geologist, but I am something of a tomato connoisseur, and those big, juicy beauties are unbeatable.

It takes a few hours to get my new plants situated and labeled, then another hour to pick ripe blackberries and raspberries and shallots and herbs. I’m weeding the flowerbeds when I get a phone call from my mom.

“Birdie!” she says. “Glad I caught you. Are you still in Eureka, or have you jetted off to Timbuktu without seeing your adoring parents first?”

“Hi, Mom,” I say, my patience already thin from the nickname. “I’m still in Eureka.”

“So you’ve gone a whole month without visiting us, even though we’re only a few hours away?”

I rub tiny, firm circles on my temple. “I’ve been busy. I’ll come down soon, I promise.”

“You’ll be here for your nephew’s first birthday party next weekend, then?”

“I…next weekend? I’m not sure, I think I may be working.”

“Take some time off,” Mom says, as if it’s that easy. “It’ll be good for you. Details are in the email I sent yesterday.”

I deleted the email without opening it because my mom’s fancy e-vites instantly make my blood pressure rise. They’re a whole production, almost as overly complicated as the actual parties she throws. “I’ll look at my schedule and get back to you,” I say.

Mom’s hum sounds like she’s unconvinced.

“Bradford is turning one, and he hasn’t even met his Aunt Robin yet,” she says.

“Annalise hasn’t seen you since two Christmases ago.

Gabriel would never say as much, he’s far too stoic, but it wounds him that his only sibling isn’t more involved in his children’s lives.

Or his life. Have you congratulated him on his promotion at the insurance company yet? ”

Gabe and I weren’t that close growing up; he was always deep in a video game or a book, and I spent as much time as possible away from home, trying all kinds of sports teams and clubs, spending whole summers away at camp.

We only got further apart after I left for college.

But I want to be a good sister to Gabe, and even though I never thought much about being an aunt, his oldest, Annalise, is cool as hell.

I’m racked with guilt by my mom’s words, but also irritated that she’d pull all these cards on me at once.

“Okay, Mom,” I say with a sigh. “I’ll come to Bradford’s birthday party. ”

“Oh, I’m so glad, dear,” she says, her tone immediately lighter. “Gabriel will be delighted. What do you think of bringing a cake?”

I wipe my sweaty forehead and feel the trail of dirt my hand leaves behind. “Sure, yeah. I can make a cake,” I say.

“Wonderful. Something citrusy would go well with the menu. Decorated with little frosting balloons. Balloons are the theme. We hired a balloon artist to decorate the house and a clown to make balloon animals for the children. Maybe you could also make one of those darling cakes for the baby to make a mess with for the pictures. What do they call it?”

“A smash cake,” I say, gritting my teeth. Not only has she strong-armed me into going to the party, now I’m baking not one but two cakes. But it’s not really about Mom. I want to do this for Gabe. “I’m on it.”

“Splendid. See you Sunday, then?”

“Sunday. I’ll be there.”

We say our goodbyes and I tuck my phone back into my pocket, my mood dampened. Spying the basket of berries and herbs I picked, I realize exactly what I need.

Fifteen minutes later, I knock on the door of the shed.

“Come in,” Molly calls out.

I stick my head in far enough to spot her hunched over her worktable, scrubbing at something with a dirty rag. “Interested in happy hour?” I hold up a glass pitcher. “Blackberry mojitos, super fresh. I literally just picked the berries and mint.”

“Actually, yeah, that sounds nice.” Molly gives whatever is on her table a final wipe, then steps back to examine it with her hands on her hips. “Perfect timing. I just finished buffing this. What do you think?”

I can’t help but note how different things feel between us now than they did when Molly first showed up. A few weeks ago, Molly would have sooner punched me in the nose than ask my opinion on anything. I put the pitcher down on a stool and walk closer to see what she’s been up to.

When I see the enormous stained-glass window, I gasp.

Bright shades of red and blue and green, a playful mix of shapes, whimsical yet tasteful, a unique geometric design.

I can’t believe Molly made this with her own hands.

Then again, of course I can. Haven’t I seen her prove over and over again that she can make something remarkable out of nothing?

“Molly, it’s…it’s phenomenal.” I lean closer to see the colorful dice, the winding trail of squares around the edges, the shiny copper lines pulling everything together. “You made this?”

“I did,” she says, pride shining through her smile. “For the new board-game shop on Spring Street.”

“It’s incredible, Moll. Every business in town is going to beg you for one.” I look between my ex and the brilliant work in front of me. “I knew you could make stained glass, but this…this is beyond. It should be in a museum.”

“Oh, stop, it’s not that good,” she says, blushing behind her freckles.

“It is.” I grab Molly’s shoulder and look her directly in the eye. “You should be really fucking proud of this.”

She tries to hold back a smile. “I am,” Molly says softly. “I’m proud of it.”

“Good.” I grab the pitcher. “Let’s have a drink. To celebrate.”

“Give me a minute to clean up and I’ll meet you on the back porch?”

“Deal.”

—

We savor the porch’s shade on two rocking chairs, toasting Molly’s brilliance as we watch a few hummingbirds flit around their feeder.

It feels good, being normal with Molly. Enjoying a cold drink.

Chatting about our days. Not fighting or giving the silent treatment or trying to scare each other off.

Between agreeing to work together on the inn and the mouse-in-the-attic fiasco and a little platonic cuddling, I think we’ve leveled up from enemies to…

friends? Or maybe just functional roommates?

“I needed this,” I say as I top off my glass. “My mom called a bit ago.”

I can feel Molly’s gaze on me. “How’s Sharon doing?” she asks.

“Oh, same as always. Splitting her time between planning events at the country club, shopping, and making me feel like I’ve disappointed my whole family.”

“They can’t be disappointed by you,” Molly says. “You’re literally famous. You have fans. You have restaurants. Plural.”

“ Had, ” I correct her, my voice strained.

Molly’s rocking chair creaks to a stop. “Oh.”

I can’t bring myself to look at her. Does she really not know?

“The pandemic was rough on the whole industry, but it hit at exactly the worst time for me,” I admit.

“I’d just made a lot of big investments in new spaces, expecting them to pay off quickly, but they never had a chance.

So I took the hit, shut my restaurants, and put all my eggs in one risky, experimental basket that I thought was perfect for the moment, an outdoor dining experience with campfires where customers cooked their own food.

By the time I got it off the ground, the moment had passed. It couldn’t survive.”

Molly is quiet for a moment. I’m grateful, because it gives me a chance to swallow back any embarrassing emotions. “That’s why you’re here?” she asks eventually.

I nod. It still hurts, but saying it out loud makes the burden a little lighter to carry.

“I’m sorry, Rob,” she says gently. “I heard about that new show getting canceled, but I had no idea about the restaurants.” I wince at Molly’s words, and she says, “Sorry, that’s probably a sore subject too.”

“ You Can Take It with You. ” I shake my head.

“A series about the best takeout in the country seemed like a great idea in 2020. But by the time it aired, no one wanted to relive the worst of the lockdown days. I probably should have learned my lesson from that, but I still went full steam ahead with Kindling. Foolish.” I grip the arm of my rocking chair to keep my free hand from shaking.

“Anyway, what was I saying? Right, my mom. She’s making me drive down to Little Rock next weekend for my nephew’s birthday. I’m supposed to bring cakes.”

“Holy smokes, Gabe’s a dad? That’s hard to picture.”

“Right? Two kids, actually,” I add. It feels good to talk to someone who knows my family dynamics. I’ve drifted away from everyone who knew the old me. “I haven’t met the youngest one yet. Annalise probably thinks I’m just the stranger who sends gifts.”

“They’ll like you for more than the presents,” Molly says. “You’ve always been good with kids. Weren’t you the most popular counselor at Girl Scout camp?”

“Kids are easier to talk to than my parents. That’s for sure.

” I take a long sip of my cocktail. “I’m dreading seeing them, to be honest. I’ve kind of been avoiding them since my career fell apart.

They always told me the restaurant industry was too volatile.

That I should have followed in my dad’s footsteps and been a dermatologist.”

Molly takes a deep breath, then says, “Do you want me to go with you?”

I turn to look at her for the first time since the confession of my various failures, stunned by the offer. “You would do that?”

“If it would help you, yeah, I would.”

“Why? They’ve been terrible to you,” I say.

I’m still haunted by the first time I brought Molly home.

We’d already bought the inn together, and instead of trying to get to know her at all, after I bragged about her DIY skills, my dad asked her to fix the garbage disposal like she was some random handyman, then told me afterward she wasn’t in my league.

I was so angry I didn’t speak to them for six months, the longest I’d gone at the time.

But I’m not faultless either. I could have done more to defend her back then.

And I probably should have apologized for leaving her and the inn high and dry instead of jumping to the defensive when we both landed here at the same time a month ago.

I should have made it clear when we first started talking about selling the inn that she’s so much more than a handyman.

She’s brilliant. “ I’ve been terrible to you. Lately, at least,” I admit.

“Not always,” Molly says, more generous than I expected. “I don’t mind being a buffer. And I haven’t been to Little Rock in a while. I bet you’ll buy me a milkshake from the Purple Cow if I ask nicely.”

“I’ll buy you a million milkshakes,” I say. Molly’s offer is more than I expected from her, more than I deserve after all the ghost nonsense. More than I deserve for letting my parents belittle her for years. “I’ll absolutely take you up on it, if you mean it.”

“I mean it.” Molly seems to surprise herself with her words as much as me. “Besides, we’re wives, and wives look out for each other.”

“Wives.” I laugh at how weird the word feels in my mouth now. “I guess we still are.”