"Oh my god. Did you call an ambulance?"
"No, no, I managed to crawl to the stool... I don’t need an ambulance," she panted, stubborn to a fault about medical bills.
"But Nora, the Oakhaven Fall Festival is this Wednesday. I have a catering order for two hundred custom pumpkin spice cupcakes and fifty loaves of artisanal sourdough due by six in the morning on Wednesday. If I don’t deliver, the contract says I lose the deposit and have to pay a five-hundred-dollar cancellation fee. I can’t afford that, Nora. The interest payment cleared, but we don’t have a single dollar of margin left."
"Mom, don’t touch anything." My voice shook as I spoke. "Don’t try to lift a single pan. I’m packing my bags and coming home right now."
"No, sweetheart, your classes..."
"I don’t care about classes. I’ll be there in two hours."
With trembling hands, I hung up the phone and turned to see Priya already walking toward her room. She returned a moment later, holding my small canvas duffel bag.
"Go," Priya said. "I’ll email your course rep and tell them you have a family medical emergency. Don’t worry about the apartment. Just take care of your mom."
"Thank you," I choked out, running to my room to throw a few changes of clothes, my laptop, and my notes into the bag.
I didn’t even stop to take off Knox’s heavy black hoodie. I zipped my duffel bag, threw my canvas tote over my shoulder, and rushed out the door.
The ninety-minute bus ride to Oakhaven went by in a blur.
By the time the bus pulled into the quiet, tree-lined station of my hometown, the sun was setting, casting long, golden shadows over the familiar brick storefronts.
Oakhaven was a slow, quiet town that smelled of woodsmoke and damp pine leaves. It was the complete opposite of Briar’s loud, high-energy campus. As I jogged down Main Street, a few shop owners I’d known since childhood waved to me through their windows, but I barely had the breath to nod back.
Pushing open the glass door to Sugar & Spice, I was greeted by the familiar, comforting aroma of cinnamon, sweet vanilla, and warm yeast. But the display cases were empty, and the kitchen in the back as silent.
"Mom?" I called out, my voice echoing in the empty shop.
A faint, pained groan came from the stairs leading up to our small apartment. I threw my duffel bag onto the counter and ran up the narrow wooden steps two at a time.
Mom lay on the floral sofa in the living room, looking pale. Her hazel eyes were tight with pain as she pressed a heating pad against her lower back. She looked so small, her curly, gray-streaked hair pulled back in a messy clip, her hands still dusted with flour.
"Nora..." she breathed, trying to sit up. "Sweetheart, you shouldn’t have..."
"Don’t move," I commanded gently, rushing to her side and pushing her shoulders back down. "I told you to stay still. Have you taken any pain relievers?"
"Two ibuprofen," she muttered, letting out a shaky breath. "I just... I went to lift the sack of rye, and my back completely locked up. I couldn’t stand, Nora. I felt so useless just lying there on the floor."
"You’re not useless, Mom," I said, my chest aching to see her in such pain. I sat on the edge of the sofa and took her hand, blinking away the hot prickle of tears threatening to spill from my eyes.
Her palm was calloused and warm... the hands that had worked eighteen-hour days for the last ten years to keep a roof over our heads and pay for my textbooks. "You’ve spent years working yourself to the bone for me. It’s my turn to help. I’m handling the Autumn Festival order."
"It’s too much for one person," she whispered as tears began to gather in her eyes. "Two hundred pumpkin cupcakes and fifty loaves of sourdough. You have classes, Nora. Your scholarship..."
"My scholarship is fine," I lied smoothly, squeezing her hand and brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. "Priya is emailing my course reps. I can study while the bread rises. Now, tell me where the recipe cards are, and go to sleep."
After tucking a blanket around her and making sure she had a glass of water nearby, I headed downstairs, tying my hair back and rolling up the sleeves of Knox’s oversized hoodie.
I pulled out the large metal recipe binder from beneath the main counter and scanned the ingredients for the sourdough glaze and pumpkin spice frosting. Marching straight to the dry pantry, I pulled open the wooden doors to check our inventory.
Flour, rye, dark brown sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg... everything was stacked in neat rows.
But when I reached for the top shelf where we kept the signature glaze ingredients, my stomach dropped.
The large glass jar of local wildflower honey was completely empty, with just a wooden spoon sitting in the sticky residue at the bottom.
"Oh, no," I muttered, double-checking the shelves behind it. Nothing.
The Oakhaven Fall Festival crowd expected the bakery’s signature wildflower honey glaze on the sourdough, and without it, the loaves wouldn’t have the golden, crisp finish that everyone came for.
I glanced up at the clock on the kitchen wall. 6:35 PM.
The local Oakhaven farmers’ market at the town square closed at seven o’clock on Monday evenings.
"Damn it," I whispered.
Still wearing Knox’s hoodie and my jeans covered in a light dusting of flour, I grabbed the bakery keys, rushed out the front door, and locked up behind me.
The evening air was cold, and streetlights began to flicker on along the sidewalk. I jogged the three blocks to the town square, my heart pounding in my chest.
The market was closing down, with vendors packing crates and loading their vans under the twilight sky. I rushed down the center aisle, desperately searching for the honey stall.
I spotted it near the corner of the square... the wooden sign for Miller’s Local Apiary still hanging above the table. A few golden glass jars were stacked on the display board as the owner cleared the crates.
"Excuse me!" I panted, jogging up to the table. "Please tell me you still have two jars of the wildflower honey left. I’m desperate."
"Sure, a minute let me..."
"Nora?"
I heard from right beside the stall.
I froze, the name catching in my throat. His voice was deeper than I remembered, but the warm, familiar tone was unmistakable.
I turned around slowly, my eyes widening in surprise.
Standing a few feet away, holding a wooden crate of fresh apples, was a tall guy with tousled brown hair, warm hazel eyes, and a familiar boy-next-door smile.
"Drew?" I breathed.