He cancelled on Tuesday.
A text at eight in the morning, clean and brief, the kind of message written by someone who had made a decision quickly before they could talk themselves out of it.
Marcus: Can't make the walkthrough today. Work. Sorry.
Three sentences. Eleven words. The last one — sorry — doing considerably more heavy lifting than a four-letter word had any business doing.
I read it at the bakery counter with flour on my hands and the Tuesday morning rush forty minutes away and the particular stillness of someone who had been half-expecting this and had hoped to be wrong.
Ava: No problem. Another time.
I put the phone in my apron pocket.
Went back to the dough.
Renee watched me from the kitchen doorway with the expression she had when she was deciding whether to say someth
