My smile falls at the mention of her. Not his grandma. I’ve always loved Nash’s grandma. My smile falls at the mention of Anna. But I force myself to cheer up, remembering that look of jealousy in his eyes last night. “Okay … So, did you still wanna hang out today?”

“Well, that’s why I’m calling you,” Nash says, and I can tell by the tone in his voice that our plans have been canceled. My shoulders sag involuntarily. “I’m surprised you didn’t know, actually—”

“Know what?” My brows pull together in confusion.

“Harley called me this morning,” he begins and, at the mention of Harley, my heart stops dead in the center of my chest. Oh God. Did he tell Nash the truth about my lie like he threatened he would last night? I’m on the verge of a panic attack. I almost miss it when he says, “He said he’s having a barbecue at his house. You didn’t know about it?”

My thoughts come to a crashing halt in the back of my mind. A barbecue? My eyes narrow into slits as I glare straight ahead at the glass cake display, as if it alone has done me some sort of an injustice. My jaw clenches at the thought of Harley. He knew Nash and I were supposed to hang out today, and he’s gone and fabricated a stupid barbecue as some kind of a diversion. What a jerk.

“Murph?” Nash’s voice interjects my thoughts. “You there?”

“Yeah.” I manage a smile despite my anger, exhaling the breath I’ve been holding. “I forgot all about the … barbecue,” I lie.

“So, I guess I’ll just see you there, then?”

“Yeah.” I nod to myself, pressing my lips together to contain the profanities threatening my composure. “I’ll see you there, Nash.”

Our call ends, and it takes everything I have not to throw my phone across the store in frustration, but my moment of anger is interrupted by Mrs. Wilcox, the sweet 82-year-old wife of Reverend Wilcox, walking into the bakery with a beaming smile mostly hidden beneath the wide brim of her church hat, and I can just tell she’s bursting at the seams to collect her weekly apple and custard turnover to have after her Sunday lunch.

“Mrs. Wilcox.” I smile through gritted teeth, tucking my hair behind my ear. “Just the usual for you on this fine Sunday?”

“Oh yes, please, Alice, darling.” She nods, looking through the glass at all the sweets, her eyes lighting up.

I haven’t been to church in a long time. Ever since Momma passed. When she was taken from me, I wondered what the point was, going to church and sitting through an hour-and-a-half sermon while Reverend Wilcox blathered on and on about our Lord and savior. Momma went to church every single Sunday, rain or shine, and a fat lot of good it did her. After Momma’s death, I began to wonder what the point was of anything, really. So, I haven’t been back. The reverend visits me here at the bakery every Thursday morning. He pretends he’s just here for one of my famous peach muffins, but his efforts to try to convince me to come back aren’t as stealthy as he believes them to be. Maybe one day I will go back to church. Harley’s always trying to tag me along with him. But I just can’t. For now, I just don’t see the point.