A/N: I am having so much fun writing this.  Thank you all for the feedback,votes and generally awesome comments.  It means so much to me!

I pack up two croissants in waxed brown paper and put them carefully into my messenger bag.  My hands shake as I do it, but I continue to ignore them.  I don’t know that I’ll have an appetite later, but I certainly don’t have one at the moment.  I’m sort of moving out of habit and I always pack two croissants before I leave. I wasn’t lying to Mandy when I told her that I hoover croissants after hours.  I’m like some sort of croissant troll, sitting in my empty cottage, eating flaky pastries by the handful.

I should go home.  I should really go home, take a shower and then call it an early night.  But I feel anxious and upset, and I can’t stop checking my phone.  It’s in my back pocket, and I keep pulling it out, thinking that I hear it or can feel it vibrating.  But no, nothing.  I am so ridiculously, inconveniently worried about Tom that I have a stomach ache.  How is this all happening, and I’ve heard nothing from him? Sometimes he calls me just to tell me what he had for lunch but now his fiancé cheats on him and I’ve got radio silence?  All I can think about is our conversation from last week.  He seemed upset about something—could it be this? Did he know Keegan was cheating on him? My chest squeezes tight, thinking of Tom dealing with that all on his own.  I had tried to get him to open up, but he hadn’t been ready.  Now…now it’s happening whether he is ready or not.

I throw my bag over my shoulder, shut off all the lights and lock the back door behind me as I leave.  The idea of going back to the hobbit hole is not appealing and my mind is racing over my options.  Take the long way home and sit on the pier, go visit my mother (no), head to the Ink Pot.  I know I told Mandy no, but it’s sort of sounding like the best option.  It’s only a block away, and so I steer my flour covered self in that direction.  I’m well aware that I’m not dressed for public consumption but really, all I want is a beer and maybe some conversation with some drunk locals in hopes that it will clear my head a bit.

I’m half way down the road when I feel my phone vibrating.  I wrench it out of my pocket, feeling my heart jump to my throat.  A text.

I guess you’ve heard by now.

It’s Keegan, not Tom.  I stop in the middle of the sidewalk, staring hard at my phone.  I’m a little surprised she is texting me, but not completely shocked.  We don’t always see eye to eye, but we’ve had some good memories, some fun times together.  Even so, she should be 100% aware of where my loyalties lie.

You are a terrible person, Keegan.  What were you thinking?  My fingers move faster than they ever have before and I hit “send” before I can really think about what I’m saying.  It’s all from the gut.  Okay, so I know it’s not the most mature thing to say, but it’s also not the worst thing I could say.  I’m practically shaking with anger at the moment, and so calling her “terrible” is pretty tame.

I’m sorry! I feel so bad.  I lost my head for a minute. I still love Tom.  Will you tell him that? He won’t speak to me.

I turn off my phone and I close my eyes and I count to ten, and then twenty and then pretty much all the way to one hundred before I can breathe without it hurting.  She is going to kill him, I know it. 

I haven’t spoken to him either.  I’m not your messenger.  He deserves better than you.  You made your bed. Sleep in it.

Again, not the most mature, but all I can think of is Tom.  I wait and she doesn’t respond, so I guess she realizes I’m not going to be quite the sympathetic shoulder for her to cry on.  My mind switches back to Tom.  Where is he? 

And then, just like that, his face is lighting up my phone.  I back away from the street and take shelter in the narrow alley way between two old brick storefronts.  I take a deep, ragged breath in before swiping to connect to the call.

“Tom.” I don’t quite recognize my own voice.  Should I keep talking and risk verbal vomit or stop now and let him do the talking? The line is quiet for a moment, but I know he’s there.  “TW, are you alright?” I manage.  The brick wall is cool and rough against my back.

“I feel like a complete idiot. I had no idea.” His voice is rough, and I feel utterly useless.

“Oh, Tom.  How could you have known?  No one expects that from someone they love.” My voice is a near whisper, and I slide down the rough wall until my butt hits the ground.

“I can’t really talk right now.” He clears his throat.  “I just wanted to hear your voice.  And to let you know I’ll be fine. I’m sorry you found out via the bloody media or whatever.  I did as well.” I feel my stomach flip, and for a second I really do wonder if I’m going to be sick.  I feel angry, and confused and heartbroken for Tom. All the emotions seem like they need somewhere to go, but instead they are just building up inside my chest, pounding and frantically looking for release.

“Where are you? At home?” I ask quickly, worried he’s going to disconnect and go back to whatever dark, joyless place his head must be residing in at the moment.  I turn my head nervously, seeing a few cars driving swiftly down the main road.  Summer drivers—going nowhere in a hurry.

“No. Keegan is there.” His voice, saying her name.  I’m pretty sure it’s painful for both of us.  It’s not just his home, it was their home.

“Where are you then?” I ask, checking my watch.  It’s nearly five here, so it’s only about 2 where Tom is.

“I’m hiding out at a friend’s apartment.  I can’t go anywhere near mine without being swarmed.” There’s rustling on his end of the phone and I hold, waiting.  “Sweet, I’ve got to go.  I’ll call you soon, okay?” He sounds strained, and I am surprised when I feel tears spring to my eyes.  I’m not a crier, so I swallow hard and fight them back.

“Yes, please.  Call me when you can.  I want to know you’re okay.” My voice sounds weird still, and I hope he can’t tell how upset I am.  He doesn’t need the added stress of having me weep all over him.

“I will.  Bye, Charlie.”  He says softly, and then hangs up.  I can’t move for a minute, and then I’m suddenly filled with a frenetic energy.  Like I can’t move fast enough.  I grab my bag, shove my phone inside and am practically running down the street.  I pass by the Ink Pot, and I see Mandy and her drummer boyfriend inside through the big glass window.  I keep running down Main Street, passing by the hand pressed soap place, and the touristy Maryland shop, and then even farther past the café that thinks it’s pastries are better than mine, but come on, they should really just stick to sandwiches and bagels because who do they think they are?  I’m running and running, and I feel my shirt sticking to my back, and my shoes sort of flopping on my feet.

Why? Why am I in Maryland when Tom needs me nearly 3,000 miles away?! Why am I here, in this soupy, sticky little smudge of a town when I could be there, helping him?  I run a bit more, deciding to go back to the cottage so I can get my head together.  The Ink Pot is out of the question, and I need a quiet space.  I move to cross over Main Street, and as I step onto the crosswalk, seeing that I have the “walk” sign, I am nearly grazed by a turning car. 

I yelp, jumping back as a large, oversized SUV with dark tinted windows zooms by me.  My temper flares immediately and for some reason I’m throwing my hands up, yelling after it.

“Watch out, you almost ran me over! Ooh must be so cool to have such a big truck and such a tiny penis!” I am shouting this down Main Street at “rush” hour, and I do not even care.  I reach into my bag, pull out my precious croissants, rip them from the paper and then proceed to chuck them at the truck which has significantly slowed down. 

The first one hits the back window with a satisfying smack, leaving a lovely, flakey, buttery smudge.  The second one I throw misses completely, and lands on the cobblestone street.  Well, I never said I’m a pitcher. Just a baker.

It comes to my attention now that (a) I just threw about $8 and my entire dinner away (b) whoever was in the SUV has stopped their car, and pulled over to the side. Normally I would be panicking, thinking of ways to apologize, but today is not that day.  My anger level is so high that it’s like the Shining in my head—just waves of blood rushing down Main Street.  Where are the creepy little twins?

I see the SUV door start to open and I brace myself, but really I’m just shifting from one foot to the other.  I’m not really a fighter, but I’d love to give this asshole a piece of my mind.  Keegan’s perfect blond face pops into my head, and I immediately want to punch something. I wait and watch as a stocky pair of legs swing out of the driver’s side door, followed by an equally stocky torso, and then a rather round and militant looking head.  My mouth goes dry, and all the noises around me turn to this weird buzzing sound.

“I should have known it was you.  Who else throws bread?” He extracts himself from the car and stands, about ten feet away from me.  I feel my stomach turn sour, and then I am almost positive I’m going to vomit.

 “They’re croissants.” I say drily because screw him, that’s why. He looks mostly the same as he did five years ago.  I had been hoping in my absence he would have caught some kind of flesh eating virus that destroyed half of his face.  A modern day Phantom of the Opera, minus the phantom and the opera part.  Just the half face. 

Chase James. I haven’t seen him in a very, very long time.  His family practically owns half of Havre de Grace, and Chase runs the family restaurant, conveniently and egotistically called “Chase’s Chesapeake Inn.”  Really? That’s all you’ve got? His family may have money, but they don’t necessarily use it on education.  Chase barely made it through high school, and then about a quarter of a term at community college before calling it quits.  Even so, he’s somewhat of a celebrity in the town. Most people here are naïve enough to see him as the sweet James boy, owner of the best restaurant in town and just a good ol’ boy.  Not everyone feels that way about him though.  Ahem.

Chase is still large, in that sort of big, dumb oafy way. He’s solid but not really muscular.  He’s short, barely reaching 5’8”, and his dark hair is cut in a short buzz.  He’s wearing mirrored aviators so I can’t see his eyes, but I know what they look like.  Brown. Full of shit.

“I’m surprised to see you.” His voice feels like nails on a chalkboard, and I visibly shiver. 

“I’m actually really, really, really not excited to see you.” I say through clenched teeth.  “So, goodbye!” I turn and then I’m walking briskly down the street, counting the miliseconds til I can be back in my wonderful, safe little hobbit hole.  My glorious little cottage with all it’s walls and doors and windows and locks that keep people that I hate out.  My heart is beating so hard that it feels like it’s trying to escape my chest.  I would gladly let it if I could.

It only takes him a moment before I can hear him behind me, and then I feel his big, meaty hand on my arm and he’s spinning me around.  My blood boils and as I whip my arm around and out of his grip. I feel something spike inside of me.  A mixture of panic and fear and disgust, but I don’t run.  I stand my ground.

“Don’t touch me.” My voice is like coffee grinds and sand, and if I weren’t such a nice girl I’d spit in his face.  We stare at each other for a minute, and though I can’t see his eyes I can feel him looking at me, leering.  It makes me want to burn all my clothes and get one of those face transplant things—those exist, right? Phantom of the Opera part deux.

“Don’t start anything, Charlotte.  The last thing I need is you raking up shit.” He points one stubby finger at me, and it makes my mouth dry and then suddenly water.  Like the calm before the vomit storm.  I can taste metal on my tongue.  I’m biting my lip so hard that I’m bleeding.

“I’m here for the bakery. That’s it.” I manage. I hate the fact that my voice is shaking a little.  I hate the fact that it’s much quieter than it should be.  I want to speak to Chase like that time I spoke to Tom after he knocked over my display of sweet cream and blueberry muffins whilst chasing me around the bakery singing some song about bears.  Then I was loud, in charge, confident.  But I am none of that now.  If I stop and think too long, I will collapse into a heap, so I turn my brain off and let adrenaline take over.

Chase’s eyes go a bit soft and blurry, and his brow is creased as he looks at me.  History. Oh, we’ve got it.  We’ve got it for sure.  Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce you to reason numero uno for why I hate Maryland.  See, I do know some Spanish.

“Just stay out of my business.” He says, deflating slightly.  He puts his hand down, realizing that I don’t really have any ammunition.  I never really did.

“You don’t need to worry about that.” I swallow, and gather up all my courage.  “What was your name again?” I say sweetly, forcing a smile. 

Chase sneers at me and then he is huffing as he waves an arm, dismissing me.  He oafs his way back to his tiny penis truck and I watch him go, feeling my heart finally start to slow.  The late afternoon sun is reflecting off the shiny black paint of his car, blinding me slightly but I can still see he’s wearing a white polo shirt and weird salmon colored shorts with plaid and tan boating shoes.  I call that the douche bag straight guy uniform.  I remember those shoes, or shoes like them.  I remember them vividly, and the memory makes my stomach lurch. 

He drives away, his truck roaring down the relatively quiet street.  As soon as it’s out of sight, I run to the nearest trash can and I lose my pathetic, sad lunch.