She tells me, “I hope we made enough truffles this year. I still can’t believe how huge the demand for them was last year!”
“Yeah, I know,” I murmur.
Plenty of boxes…bags…napkins. Chilled complimentary mini water bottles. Business cards and customer punch cards. Good.
I check the clock on the wall across from me, the hands of which were made to look like two chocolate-dipped pretzel rods. Fewer than fifteen minutes remain until we open. I expect people will start gathering outside soon—in fact, through the glass middle of the wooden front door, I can see a car parking in one of the closest spaces.
After turning my attention to the display case, where Ceceli is now arranging some real-life chocolate-dipped pretzel rods, I think about what we’ve just said to each other.
I add, “But honestly, I won’t be surprised if we still run out of the Sweet & Salty truffles. Having the salt sprinkled on top makes them so good.”
“I know,” she groans longingly. “Yum.”
“Maybe the Hot Stuff ones will do well too. We didn’t have them last year, did we?”
She turns excited eyes on me, causing her glittery red eyeliner to glint in the overhead lights. “That’s right, we didn’t! Ooh, girl, those things are the perfect combination of spicy and sweet.” Now she gasps. “Holy shit! Yes! We have to say that to people in order to get them to try those truffles. ‘Happy Valentine’s Day, valued customer. Need something to spice up your life…or your relationship?’” She gives an exaggerated wink.
I raise my eyebrows. “I…actually love that.”
“Right?” Then, quickly looking past me, she chuckles. “Ope, here’s a gentleman who thinks we opened early for Valentine’s Day.”
On cue, the locked door is audibly being pulled at. I glance back and see a man who does appear to be confused as he looks over the hours of operation posted on his side of the glass. Another moment passes before he rolls his eyes and tries to peer into the shop.
I hear Ceceli hurrying away and giggling, like she doesn’t want to be caught noticing him even though this is basically her store and there’s nothing wrong with her not wanting to open early. So I take it upon myself to send the man a courteous wave that says, ‘Sorry, and thanks for being eager, but we’re not quite ready yet.’
He makes a show of checking his watch and looking back at me.
I sigh and turn my attention away.
“Yep,” I say softly, “I know you don’t see why you should have to wait these last few minutes. It’s Valentine’s Day, and you’re a customer, and you’re out in the cold, and I’m close enough to let you in.” I start looking for the tape so I can deal with a nearby droopy decoration. “But I’m sad to report we can’t always get what we want.”
Cliff’s face drifts into my mind. It’s no surprise, yet it still hits me as hard as an unpleasant surprise would.
I sigh weakly now, send his spirit my love, and try to refocus on the here and now.
Just keep moving forward, I remind myself. You can do it.
I nod a little and also remind myself that Theo’s party will be happening at eleven. I’ll get to see her again soon—and Beckett too.
I’m looking forward to watching them interact with each other. It’s sure to be heartwarming.
In no time, The Chocolate Shop is officially open for business, and the man who’s been standing outside definitely does not have a heartwarming attitude. He looks at me flatly after I’ve unlocked the door for him, and when I greet him and ask how he’s doing, he mutters meaningfully, “Cold.”
Don’t ask me why he didn’t go back and wait in his car. It’s thirty-one degrees out, I think. If it’d been me, I wouldn’t have stood around with chattering teeth and trembling bones just to prove a point.
He doesn’t get any friendlier during the rest of his visit, but it doesn’t bother me. He can be grumpy if he feels the need to be. Lord knows this chapter of my own life hasn’t been pretty; not only am I uninterested in returning people’s sass, but I’m also not under the impression that I have any clue what someone else might be going through.
So I wish him a good day after he has paid for his half-dozen truffles (three of which are the salt-topped ones), and I don’t take it personally when he leaves without responding.
The door hasn’t fully shut behind him before two more customers are swinging it open again and hurrying into the shop. They’re armed with smiles and happy hellos. I’m not able to match them, but I try, and that seems to be perfectly fine with them.
Ceceli rejoins me up here during the girls’ perusal of our treats, and she wastes no time in trying the spicy truffle line on them. They get a big laugh out of it, and after they inspect the truffles in question, they decide they do want to buy a couple.
Ceceli squeaks and does a celebratory wiggle of some sort.
I comment, “Awesome,” and, out of old habit, mimic the air high-five she sends me.
My half is pathetic compared to hers, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She’s only happy as she retrieves the truffles from the case. It’s good enough for me, so I go on tending to the rest of the girls’ orders.
And just like that, work kicks off.
More people steadily start coming in, bringing chatter and cold morning air through the door with them.
We’re soon remarkably busy, as we expected, but it feels good. I like that Ceceli and I are the only people on the clock right now. Her mom is our boss, but she’s not around since she mainly handles administrative work and odd hours. Gianna will arrive a bit after ten and Denver shortly after that, so things will be plenty covered when it’s time for me to leave for Theo’s party; in the meantime, there’s a lot for me to concentrate on in here, and it’s soothing. Getting swept up in the flow is easy.
“Assistant manager of a fancy candy store, huh?” one guy remarks to me as I’m gathering the chocolate-coated bacon he wants. “Well, Ms. Noelle Bright, it’s fun in here and you’re keeping up with business like a bird flying through the air. That’s really cool.”
My preoccupied brain briefly pauses to wonder how he knows my name and job title, but I remember I have a nametag on. I count the pieces of bacon laid out on the wax paper sheet in my hand, then reach for a flat baggie to package them in.
“Yes, sir,” I reply, smoothly dealing with the bacon before switching my attention to the dipped marshmallows he also asked for. “I love my job.”
“I bet! But I’m curious: do you work long hours as a manager? Like, all day, from nine-thirty in the morning to nine-thirty at night? Or do you get off work earlier sometimes?” He chuckles. “Do you ever get to enjoy a happy hour, for example?”
The four chocolate-dipped marshmallows…are…now boxed up. Got him the six pieces of bacon already. That’s all he wanted. He’s good to go.
I fold down the lid of the small box, tuck the front tab into place, and absently glance up at the guy. He gives me an amicable smile. I imitate it the best I can before heading to the register with his stuff.
While I deal with his transactions, his questions catch up to me.
I say, “Um, long hours sometimes, but yes, they’re usually happy. This job really is great. Do you have a punch card with us?”
He doesn’t answer. It’s fine by me—he’s probably searching his wallet for payment.
Except after I’ve turned the Square terminal around to him, I glance at him again and find he’s just quietly looking at me, seeming amused with his eyebrows lifted.
After another second, he shakes his head and extends his credit card.
“No, Ms. Bright,” he says, “I don’t have a punch card. Should I get one? Become something of a regular?”
I gesture for him to use the card reader near him. “Sure, if you’d like. Eight punches will get you free chocolate. It’s a nice deal if you’re a fan of our stuff.”
“Okay, great! Sign me up!”
He’s soon leaving with his purchases, one punch on his new customer card, a
nd a cheerful echo of my wish that he’ll have a good day.
I’m on my way over to greet the next person gazing into the glass case when Ceceli shuffles up to me.
“He was cute,” she says.
The next customer actually appears to be sending chocolate information to someone she’s texting. The older gentleman behind her is on a phone call, and the handful of other people in line are either in deep conversation amongst themselves or looking like they, too, are not quite ready to make their purchases.
I take this moment to breathe and focus on Ceceli’s statement. Then I nod toward the door. “That guy who just left? I didn’t notice. I bet you can catch him if you hurry. It’s no problem for me to cover for you. You can go say hi or whatever.”
I expect her to squeak in grateful excitement and rush off, but instead, she tilts her head and regards me with…something gentle and hesitant?
Huh. That’s not like her. What would have her feeling shy about the guy?
But she says gently and hesitantly, indeed, “I didn’t mean he was cute for me.” The smile she tips at me is small, and the look she skips over me is the lightest possible shade of flirtatious. “And he doesn’t wanna be cute for me. That much was clear.”
The words prickle at me.
I stare at her as I process them.
I don’t feel angry or insulted, though. I feel fresh sadness.
She can tell. Her small smile falters before it grows again, just a tiny bit, adding encouragement to her expression.
This isn’t the first time someone has hinted at me maybe starting to date again. Ceceli and my parents have been touching on it here and there over the last few months. Initially, it was insulting, because the only thing I heard in those hints was the suggestion to move on—‘What the fuck?’ didn’t even begin to cover how upset I was about it, no matter how many times I chose those words as my response. How could anyone suggest I move on in that way?
I couldn’t fathom doing it. Didn’t want to. Didn’t want to consider pretending Cliff was never the holder of my heart.
But no, honestly, it doesn’t anger me anymore to think about it. Just stings something fierce. I’ve continued living enough to recognize that the idea isn’t to pretend Cliff away—of course it isn’t. Yet imagining looking at someone else the way I looked at him…well, it feels like that whether it’s meant to or not. Feels like a betrayal waiting to happen.
It’s folly to believe no one else on the face of this highly populated earth could ever make me feel happy again, but I don’t care to let anyone try to bring back everything he inspired in me.
I’m still working on mending my and Theo’s life, and that is enough to deal with.
Ceceli reaches out and pats my shoulder, pulls me out of my thoughts. I soak up the love and support in her eyes.
Belatedly, I recall that male customer’s behavior. My mind dimly replays the mention of happy hour and his talk of becoming a regular at The Chocolate Shop. I guess he could’ve been flirting without me realizing. Maybe.
I can’t find it in me to be disappointed, or even embarrassed, by my potential ignorance.
The thought of being flirted with doesn’t warm me or put an excited flip in my stomach. I still feel as cold and detached about the topic of dating as I did before.
“I didn’t see it,” I finally mumble, rubbing my palms up and down the sides of my jeggings. “Didn’t see anything about him that wasn’t customer-like. So….”
She nods and says, “Totes.”
Just like that, her tone is easy like usual.
With another pat at my shoulder, she winks. “And you know what? I wasn’t gonna say anything, but the honest truth is I got the feeling he was working hard to smother the, ‘I eat olives on my pizza,’ vibe.”
A weak breath of a laugh leaves me. Refusing to date men who eat olives on pizza has been a running joke between us for our entire friendship, which is almost as old as Cliff and Beckett’s was. It got even funnier when, in fact, Cliff turned out to not like olives, same as us.
Halfheartedly, I say, “Well, it’s a good thing I didn’t notice he was cute, huh?”
“Eh, now I’m thinking about it, he wasn’t that cute. Valentine’s Day must be messing with my brain.”
The next two customers appear to be ready for some assistance now, so after I give Ceceli’s bangle bracelets a grateful shuffle, she and I turn our attention back to work.
No, she isn’t gentle or hesitant about guys, but with her oldest friend? That’s a different story.
Though she has never let me forget it, especially over the last couple years, I’m reminded of it again now: I can trust her to stand by me. I can trust her to be whatever form of herself I need.
I pray to God she’ll never need to trust me back to this extent, but if she does, I vow here and now to be as solid for her as she has been for me.
That’s what good friends do.
Tap and ballet are a classic duo, after all.
—
Right after Cliff died, when the world went a cold gray and I did, too, it was difficult for me to interact with our daughter.
It was even harder for me to look at her.
Most of the time, I didn’t even try, because I didn’t want to see him through her.
Even through my haze of depression and grief, that made me feel like such a terrible person—such a terrible mother. She needed me, but I was a wreck and didn’t know how to act like I wasn’t, even for the sake of my angelic little girl. I didn’t know how to take care of her when I couldn’t even take care of myself.
She was only three at the time of his passing, but she knew full well who her daddy was, so she noticed his absence right away. There was no grace period for me to take advantage of after Ceceli drove me away from the hospital so I could pick Theo up at my parents’ house. There was no way to distract her from happily wanting to see Cliff like always.
It confused her so much that he wasn’t with me.
Confused her even more when I sat her down and weakly told her, with my mom’s guidance since I had no idea what to say, that he had died and become an angel.
My mom took over then because my brain just stopped working, and she told Theo he couldn’t be with us anymore but that he was still in our hearts, and that he’d be watching over us while we went on without him…
…and even during that important conversation—or perhaps because it was such an important conversation—I only looked at Theo’s face once.
She didn’t even see it. She was looking from her grandma to her tiny hands, her expression falling and falling and falling as she tried and failed to understand, to wrap her toddler mind around what she was hearing.
I tore my eyes away before her tears could start falling too.
It took me days to be able to really look at her again.
She resembled Cliff. But it wasn’t just that fact that gutted me every time I saw her; it was also the fact that they loved each other like…God, like I’d never seen a father and daughter love each other before. I have a great relationship with my dad, and I’ve seen how good Ceceli’s is with hers, but the one Cliff and Theodora had? Maybe it was because he and I were in love and she was the product of it. I don’t know. I just know I’d never seen more adoration between two people in my life, even over the course of three short years.
It.
Was.
Agonizing.
To look at her and be forced to think about him.
And yes, that made me feel terrible.
Truthfully, I don’t remember much else from those surrounding days, whatever their number was. Several days, it felt like, of nothing but shadows and isolation and anguish and no appetite and being unable to forget how Cliff looked at the very end…. But one thing I do recall is breaking my despondent silence to spontaneously confess myself to another soul—a soul that had waded through my haziness to try to reach me. When it did, I confessed that I felt lost on how to care for Theo the way I was supposed
to because of how lost my very spirit felt.
And I received a softly-worded nudge that shifted something in me just a little bit. Just enough.
So I found myself crawling through that haze, toward a way out that I hadn’t realized was there. I was able to gain some perspective and start looking at Theo properly again. After all, I love her more than anything—Cliff being gone didn’t change that. As had always been true, my love for our girl was overwhelming and of the utmost significance to me.
Facing her still wasn’t easy. I still didn’t want her to remind me of him because I wasn’t free of the agony and wasn’t sure how much more of it I could stand.
But I did want her to remind me of other things. Things that were still good. Like her being with me at all, and her precious smile, and the consuming adoration she had effortlessly planted in every atom of my being.
These days, I’m firmly back to looking at her and relishing it.
These days, when we’re together, I care more about what she lost than what I lost. She’s my baby and I’m her mama. My heartache is mine to deal with; it shouldn’t be taken out on her, and I hate that it ever was.
So when I walk back into her pre-k class just before eleven o’clock and see her coloring at her desk, I have no trouble seeing Theo. Just like when I went to wake her this morning.
The gloomy weight that’s been taunting me eases up as I watch her sitting there, so beautiful and special, wearing a pink paper chain necklace she didn’t have on earlier.
And I’m revisited by my deep gratitude toward Beckett. Before work and preschool today, I was grateful once again for his sweet generosity where Theo is concerned—now I’m grateful once again for how gently I recall him nudging me back to her almost two years ago, not wanting me to let my grief stand between us.
I’ll never let anything stand between us again, and I don’t think he will either.
I’m approaching Theo now. She notices and gasps, excitement illuminating her face.
“Mommy!” she exclaims in her adorable little-kid voice.
“Hi, my love.” I kneel to give her the hug she’s holding her arms out for. I sway her back and forth in the tender embrace, then kiss her hair. “I’m happy to see you again. Are you having fun?”
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