Page 19 of Just One More Thing

Jake’s voice.

And a woman’s.

Maybe I should wait. Maybe I should turn around. Maybe I should suddenly remember I left something back at Holey Moley and flee to the safety of flour and icing and my grandmother weaponizing concern through sarcasm.

Instead, my feet keep moving.

“It’s so big, I don’t know if it’ll fit,” the woman says, a little breathless.

I freeze.

“It’s hard enough, Bethany, I should be able to inch it in.”

Oh.

Oh no.

“Should we try another hole?”

This is… this is not happening.

“Yes. Yes! Now just push it in a little deeper,” she says. “Maybe twist it.”

Jake grunts.

I feel like I’ve been slapped with a live fish.

Of course he’s seeing someone. Why wouldn’t he be? He’s funny and tall and handsome and steady in that deeply unfair way that probably makes some women lose all reasoning and their panties in one smooth motion.

And of course he moved on. Why wouldn’t he? I’m the one who left. I’m the one who ran.

This was a terrible idea.

A truly terrible, humiliating, idiotic idea.

I spin to escape and immediately trip over my own feet.

The box flies out of my hands.

It lands upside down.

Doughnuts roll in every direction.

A cruller makes a break for the doorway. The chocolate glazed spins in one perfect, dramatic circle before collapsing glaze-side down, simply giving up.

I stare. Horrified.

Then I drop into a crouch and start grabbing doughnuts on pure adrenaline, shoving them back into the box like they didn’t just kiss the floor.

Of course this would happen. I showed up uninvited with a box full of proof that some part of me still remembers exactly what he likes.

Dear diary.

Brought doughnuts. Interrupted sex. Died.

Crying feels alarmingly close, right behind my eyes, which only makes me move faster. I scoop up the last glazed, jam it into the box, and start power walking for the door.

“Mo?”