Not as I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling.

Not as I get in the shower to get ready for work.

And sure as shit not as I unlock the back door of the bakery with a good morning nod to Sammy.

I can’t help but let the unease twist my stomach or the unsettled thoughts own my head.

With a sigh and a bakery loaded with new orders impossible to fulfill, I shake my head to try and rid all my overthinking.

This marriage is fake, Hendrix.

That’s not a newsflash. It’s not something you didn’t know.

It doesn’t matter where he goes or who he talks to.

You’re made of tougher stuff than this, Hendrix.

Just keep your heart out of this “business arrangement” and you will be absolutely fine.

You will not be a cliché, because you won’t allow yourself to be.

Easier said than done.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Gizmo

The shelter is busy.

I stand behind the serving counter, my baseball hat low over my eyes, my long sleeves hiding the tattoos snaking down my arms, and my hands sweating inside the cheap, plastic, serving gloves they give us to wear.

People stand quietly in line. Some have their heads down as they shuffle their feet when the line moves, others make a comment or two to their line neighbor, while others have various outbursts as their mental illnesses overshadow the ghost of who they used to be.

There’s no judgment here at the shelter, no requirements on appearances or grooming. They serve everyone and don’t ask questions.

I spoon the macaroni and cheese onto the plates that are held out to me. A few of the people make small talk with me as they move through the line. Many don’t. I smile and meet their eyes all while scanning every face that walks through the door.

And while I do this once a week when I’m in town, the director called me this morning to say she finally spotted her again. That she was here in the shelter for food.

That my mom was here.

I haven’t seen her in months.

And the need to lay eyes on her, to make sure the shell of the woman, who I still love very much, is okay? Absolute.

“Jase,” the director says from behind me. “Let me take the line. Why don’t you go take a plate over to the table near the door?”

“Okay. Thanks.”

My heart lodges firmly in my throat as I trek across the warehouse space toward the petite figure turned into herself at the far table. She’s in all dark colors except for a fuchsia scarf that’s wrapped around her head, holding her matted hair out of her face.