“Nice day.” Emily lifts her face to the sun peeking through the clouds.
“It is,” I say, though my heart still races. “Sorry for interrupting your lunch.”
She shrugs. “You didn’t. Always better to eat with company.”
I risk a peek at her profile. She’s older than me, in her early-thirties, but there’s nothing soft about her. Her silver hair is pulled back into a short braid, leaving her high cheekbones and full lips on display.
She takes another bite of her sandwich, chews, swallows, and points at the cooler with her elbow. “Want a sandwich?”
“Oh, no, I can’t take your lunch.” My stomach chooses that moment to betray me with a rumble loud enough to draw a laugh from her.
She reaches into the cooler and pulls out a second sandwich the same size as the one she holds in her other hand.
I take it, peeling back wax paper to reveal thick slices of bacon, lettuce, and tomato on a crusty whole-grain bread.
I take a bite, and it’s the best thing I’ve eaten since I arrived. “Where did you buy this bread?”
She swallows and wipes her mouth with a handkerchief. “Baked it last night.”
“It’s incredible,” I say. “When do you find the time? You’re always working.”
She smiles, and the effect is disarming. “I’m an early riser, and I slow ferment in the fridge.”
“I don’t know what that means,” I admit.
She cocks her head. “Do you want to?”
“Is it weird I’ve never questioned how bread is made?”
She shakes her head. “Not at all. Baking bread isn’t for everyone.”
“What does cold fermentation mean?” I ask, wanting to keep her talking.
I take another slow bite, chewing as Emily talks while she eats, explaining how using the refrigerator slows the rising process, her hands sketching shapes in the air as if sculpting dough.
I only catch half the words, caught up in the rhythm of her storytelling. Her fingers move with the same confidence she had hauling me upright a few minutes ago, and I realize I’m more interested in the way she gestures than in the science of bread baking.
By the time she finishes, I clear my throat and admit, “You lost me at the gluten content of different flours.”
Her mouth quirks. “That’s fine. Eating it is better than discussing it.”
I take another bite, letting the crust crackle under my teeth. “This bread really is incredible. You could open a bakery.”
She shrugs, but a hint of pride warms her gray eyes. “I enjoy feeding people. Don’t need it to turn into a business.”
“But you’re so good.”
“Don’t need to earn money from everything I’m good at,” she says gently. “The moment you turn what you love into income, you lose a hobby and gain another job.”
I huff a little laugh, though it comes out more tired than amused. “That’s… not how my brain works. If I do something well, my first instinct is to figure out how to sell it. Pay the rent, prove it matters.” I stare at the sandwich in my hands for a moment. “Guess that’s why I’m in my current pickle.”
A beat of silence follows where I wait for her to ask what pickle I’m in, and she waits for me to talk more without it being dragged out of me.
After a while, she asks, “How did you become friends with Chloe?”
“We met in university. She took a creative writing class I was a teaching assistant for.” I smile at the memory. “I brokered her first book deal.”
Emily tips her head, the silver in her haircatching the weak sunlight. “I read her first book. Didn’t see myself in it, but it was a fun adventure story.”