“Yes,” I sighed, shaking my head. “So, when do you think you’ll be able to come home?”

He hesitated, and I could almost hear the trepidation in his silence.

“Nash?” I asked a little more urgently than I would have liked.

“Probably not until Thanksgiving …”

My jaw dropped.

“Two months?” I cried.

“I know, I’m sorry, babe.”

I could feel tears burning at the backs of my eyes, but I refused to cry. I’d cried enough over the last few weeks, I couldn’t spare any more tears.

“Maybe you could—” Nash went to speak, stopping himself halfway.

“Maybe I could what?”

He paused a moment, and all I could hear was the sound of the New York City traffic bustling in the background of his call. It was a sound I hated when I’d first moved up there. A sound I never thought I would get used to. A sound I now miss, terribly, because all it does is remind me of what I’m missing out on being down here in Graceville, Georgia, a town with literally two sets of traffic lights and three roundabouts, and no such thing as a morning rush hour.

“Maybe you could come back to New York?” he suggested. “Back to school. You could take catch-up classes, and we could—”

“Nash,” I interjected. “I can’t go back to school. I can’t afford the tuition, and I have this place to run. I’m-I’m not coming back to New York.”

“What? Ever?” His voice was high-pitched and incredulous, and I imagined his blue eyes bulging.

I took a deep breath, preparing myself. I hadn’t been expecting to have this conversation with him over the phone. I’d planned on telling him when he came home this weekend to help with the reopening. “I have to stay here,” I began to explain, considering my words. “I can’t lose this place, Nash. My mother worked her whole life for the bakery. It’s been in the family for three generations.”

Silence ensued.

“S-so you’re not coming back to New York?” Nash finally asked, and there was something behind his question—a harsh tone within his voice—that immediately pricked the skin at the back of my neck.

“No,” I stated vehemently. “I’m not coming back, Nash.”

“Well then,” he said with a derisive laugh that held no hint of humor. “I guess there’s nothing more to say.”

I pressed my lips together, picking at a loose thread on my apron. “I guess not.”

“I’ve gotta go,” he murmured. “I’ll call you later.”

And with that, our call ended. No I love you. No I miss you. Not even a goodbye.

I stared down at the half-frosted cupcakes, so many conflicting emotions running through my mind. And those tears I’d been trying so hard to keep at bay began falling relentlessly. Looking around at the kitchen, I realized something. This was my life now, whether I liked it or not. And, without warning, an anger I’d never felt before got the better of me. Or, maybe it wasn’t anger. Maybe it was the feeling of resignation or resentment. I don’t know what it was but, without even considering the consequences of my actions, I released a scream that had been pent up inside me for far too long.