Ember

Inside the narrow box, I’m strapped down, unable to move. A loud noise and a sudden jerk forward, my head snaps up while my shoulders are held firmly in place. Sound is muffled. The darkness is green, with only flickers of iridescent turquoise like the sun on fish scales or headlights in the rain.

I cry for my dad. I cry for my sister, but no one answers.

Then the water comes.

It streams in through the walls in smooth arcs. It rises up from the floor, a black torrent touching my feet, my ankles…

It comes so fast my breathing is tight with panic.

It’s at my knees.

It’s at my waist.

It’s at my chest…

Strong hands grip me, pulling me out of the watery grave. My eyes squeeze tightly shut, and I hold onto my savior’s neck. It’s a man. He smells like cedar and cinnamon…

Cinnamon.

It’s not a man.

It’s a boy.

I sit on his lap, my legs around his waist, and he holds me tightly against his chest. We’re both naked, and our skin is flush against each other’s. It’s soothing and warm. My fingers lightly trace the lines on his back, and I press my lips against his neck, tasting the salt on his skin.

He holds me, one hand at the back of my head, fingers threaded in my hair. The other is around my back, holding me steady.

Something incredible just happened, something powerful and life changing. Together we climbed a mountain and jumped off into the expanse. We flew through the air and touched the stars, let the rainbows slip through our fingers…

Blinking slowly, I open my eyes to a hazy awareness. In this place between consciousness and dreams, I feel him so distinctly inside of me. I taste him so clearly. My body hums with the energy of my fading orgasm, and his scent lingers in my nose. It takes several seconds to recover, to understand where I am.

To realize it was only a dream.

I blink at the painted wood walls, the fan turning slowly, the long shadows tracing up the corners of the room with each oscillation.

Reality hits me all at once like a punch to the heart. I sit up and look around. I’m dressed in a thin white tank and panties, and it’s early morning.

“Oh my God.” I drop my head into my hands with a groan.

I haven’t dreamed of Jackson in… well, a week, I guess.

Damn him.

Ripping the sheets aside, I climb out of bed and walk slowly to the kitchen area of my studio apartment. My legs tremble like I’ve just run a mile, but it’s all in my mind. He’s not here.

“Get a grip, Emberly,” I mutter, picking up the kettle and filling it with tap water. I set it on the small stovetop and flick the heat to high.

I won’t do this again. I won’t dwell on the past because my present is actually pretty great. Tabby’s idea of taking Coco to hand out samples on the boardwalk yesterday paid off, and I have five orders for this week alone.

“Five!” I whisper to no one.

I should get a cat…

Either way, one woman asked for a three-tiered chocolate-pepper cake with elaborate, buttercream rose decorations for a dinner party of thirty. That’s three hundred dollars plus a seventy-five dollar delivery charge!

Two other people wanted simple six-inch rounds for the week’s dessert. Another man wanted a fruit tart. Combined with Betty Pepper’s penis, I could make a thousand dollars this week. Granted, my profit after supplies wouldn’t be that much, but still.

Holding the coffee press, I do the I’m making money dance. A loud banging outside my open window makes me squeal and almost throw grounds everywhere.

Shit! I forgot—Wyatt shoved a slip of paper under my door last week saying he’d hired someone to paint the storefronts. It’s about time. The three of us pay a tiny fee each month for “beautification,” and I swear, I was beginning to think he’d pocketed that money.

Tiptoeing to the balcony, I peek around the corner to see what’s happening. Down below, on the opposite end of the row, a tallish guy in an ancient-looking grey tee, jeans, and a baseball cap is assembling scaffolding in front of Betty’s market/poboy shop. I can’t see his face, but his arms flex as he twists and hammers the metal rods. Nice physique…

Not that I give a shit.

I only care about two things right now—making my business a huge success and making a home for Coco and me. Men are off my list for the duration.

The shrill whistle of the kettle breaks my concentration, and I skip over to pour the boiling water over the coffee grounds before I head to the bathroom for a quick shower. It’s bright and early, and I’ve got to get busy if I’m going to meet the demand of being a soon to be regionally famous baker.

---

Two hours later, all three of the sponges for the spicy chocolate cake are waiting on the cooling rack, and I’m leaning over the heavy wooden table studying a book of decorative frosting techniques when the little bell over my door rings.

Tabby flies inside. “Are you okay?”

She crosses the room reaching for my hands, and the fear in her enormous eyes makes my stomach plunge. Terror shoots through my chest, and I pass her, rushing to the door.

“What happened?” The apron is over my head, and I’m grabbing my shoes. “Is Coco okay? What’s going on?”

“What?” Confusion lines her face. “Coco’s fine—I mean, as far as I know…”

Stopping at the door, I turn and glare at her as my arm drops. “Tabby! What the hell are you thinking barging in here like that and scaring me to death?”

I lean against the glass door, trying to calm my breathing and feeling super annoyed. My heart is beating so fast it hurts.

“Are you serious?” Tabby’s crosses the room to where I stand, studying my expression.

“What the hell, Tabs?”

“What have you been doing today?”

Pushing her hands away, I walk to the table where my book is open to the page on alternative piping nozzles for buttercream roses. “I’ve been working on this cake order since seven. I need a Wilton 2D star tip, but I’d have to order it online…”

She watches me chewing her lip, and I frown. “What small-town drama has you so wound up?”

The bell rings above the door, and in walks my mother holding Coco’s hand, stopping just inside. Her eyes are strained as well.

“Mommy, cake! Let’s make cake!” Coco chants as she skips across the wood floor to me, her long hair bouncing all around.

She’s wearing a bright yellow gingham dress with little strawberries around the smocked collar. I stand and swing her up on my hip.

“What are you doing here?” I give her a quick kiss on her rosebud lips.

“Granny said I can play with you today!”

“She did?” Frowning, I turn to my mother, who is peering through the window in the direction of Betty’s shop. “Doesn’t Coco have preschool?”

My mother’s blue eyes slide from the glass to me, and she hesitates, her chin slightly lifted. She was acting weird last night when we got back from the strand, but Coco had fallen asleep on my shoulder. I didn’t have time for whatever lecture she might offer, so I went straight to the bathroom, bathed my whining baby and put her to bed before saying a quick goodnight and heading back here to crash.

Walking slowly to where I stand with Coco on my hip, she clutches her square handbag tight against her stomach as if it’s a shield. “I thought you might like to have her with you today.”

“I want her with me every day, but you said preschool is important to get her ready for kindergarten.” I don’t add the tuition is outrageous.

“Missing one day won’t hurt her.” My mother looks at my best friend a moment.

They hold each other’s gaze as if searching for something. I have no idea what, nor do I care. I meant it when I said I want Coco with me all the time, but of course, my mother picks the busiest week of my life to bend her rules.

“It’s great to have her here, Mom, next time, just, you know, check with me first?” Putting my daughter down, I wrap my long brown apron over my denim cutoffs and white tee knotted at my waist.

My daughter walks around the large, open space while I face my mother, waiting to see if that’s all she has to say. Again, she hesitates a few moments in silence as if she’s waiting on me to do something.

“Is that all? Because I’ve got five cakes to make this week, and I need to get to work.”

Her brow lowers, and she turns on her heel headed for the door. “I have to run a few errands. I’ll come back and get her for lunch and naptime.”

My jaw tightens at her words. “You don’t have to. I can keep her and have her home after supper. Unless she gets too hot. I’ll text you.”

Standing at the door, she shakes her blonde hair. “I’ll be back.” With that, she leaves, and I exchange a glance with Tabby.

“Keep an eye on her just a second.” Apron off, I jog to the stairs leading up to my apartment.

Throwing open the closet, I drop to my knees and dig in the box of toys I keep for days like this. I need to shop for new ones now that she’s started preschool. Still, a plastic bucket of assorted play-dough molds is inside—perfect! I dig deeper, pulling out several Ziploc bags holding different colors of the squishy stuff.

Hopping up, I hear the muffled sound of voices coming from below. It’s early on a Monday, and I can’t imagine who it could be. One is Tabby, but the other is deeper, a man’s voice. Is Wyatt here?

Could it be the fellow who wanted the fruit tart?

Hurrying down, I’m at the bottom of the steps reaching for the door. I’m in the dim-lit hall, my hand grasping the cool metal knob, when the world shifts into slow motion.

That voice…

Momentum carries me forward and I push the door aside and my eyes lock with his.

I can’t breathe. All the air disappears from the room. I grip the door handle. My knees are liquid… I’m going to fall.

The plastic bucket slips from my grip, and it lands on the wood floor with a loud crash and a rippling clatter as everything spills out.

“Play-dough!” Coco cries, oblivious to my distress.

She dashes across the room to retrieve her toys, but I haven’t looked away from Jackson Cane standing in the middle of my bakery.

Last night he was in my bed, in my dreams.

He’s only ever been in my dreams—for more than ten years.

Now he’s standing in front of me, flesh and bone, in the middle of my store.

Like he can just walk back into my life…

Out of the past…

Just like that.

He doesn’t move. He only blinks at me, seeming stunned. He reaches up and slowly pulls the cap off his head. He cut his hair.

All of these things happen so fast, until my daughter’s words break the spell. “Can I play, Mommy?”

Jackson’s blue eyes move down to her and up to me again, down and up as if putting us together.

“Yes,” I say softly.

She scoops up the plastic bucket, marching to the large table like nothing is happening, like I’m not spiraling through space. In my peripheral vision, I see Tabby’s hand cover her mouth, but my brain still hasn’t recovered from the lightning strike. It takes a few more breaths before I’m able to speak.

We both speak at once. “What are you doing here?”

His voice adds a depth to my softer one. It’s a vibration that echoes in my core. My breath comes in pants, but from somewhere inside me rises a strength I didn’t know I possessed.

I take a step to the center of the room, in his direction.

“I never left.” An edge is in my voice.

He shakes his head, his eyes never leaving mine. “No. That’s not right.”

He looks to my daughter, who has climbed onto the long bench by the window, pulling her pretend baking dough out of the bags. Tabby moves to Coco and twists her long brunette curls into a cute little bun on her head. My daughter starts to sing one of her made-up songs as she pats the dough in her small hands.

She’s pretending to be me. She’s always pretending to be me, and I watch as his expression turns slowly to confusion and then anger. My teeth clench and all the past is consumed in a tidal wave of protective rage rolling through my chest.

“It’s time for you to go.” My voice is level, and his eyes are back on mine. I’m not smiling. “I don’t know why you’re in Oceanside, but there’s nothing for you here. Not anymore.”

The words twist pain in my stomach, and I watch as he passes a large hand over his mouth. The muscle in his jaw flexes, and he puts the cap back on his head, going to the door. It’s only then that I recognize the faded jeans, the beat up gray tee… the cap. He’s the man working for Wyatt.

Why the hell would he be working for Wyatt?

He’s through the door and out of my bakery just as I sink to my knees, then to my butt, right there on the floor in the middle of my shop.

Tabby runs to me, dropping to sit in front of me. Her green eyes are round, and she’s holding both of my hands as the waves of emotion rise and fall, crashing and churning in my chest.

“Jackson’s back,” she says.

“He’s painting the building.”

Painting…

My eyes slide closed, and the tears fall.