“Do you have something against cinnamon rolls?” Grace asks with a chuckle.
I realize that I’ve been staring at the cylinder tube in my hand for quite some time.
I shake the thoughts gripping me with pain out of my head. “Do you remember that bake-off we used to watch with Mom every year?” I hit the tube of dough against the counter in Grace’s kitchen until it pops, making me jump back with a start, like it always does.
“Yes!” Grace says with a large grin. “You were so sure you were going to win it some year.”
“Did I ever enter?”
Grace looks off, her eyes focusing on an inconsequential spot on the wall, as she thinks. “No, I don’t think so. Not that I recall.”
I start placing the rolls on the baking sheet. “I don’t think I ever entered. But did I tell you that I made a bunch of horrib
