Our Finest Hour (The Time #1)(72)

“Not the good kind of rough weekend, I take it?” She’s making a joke, but her eyes don’t hold any laughter.

I look up at her, and suddenly my chest feels tight. My lower lip twitches, maybe I’d even call it a tremble, but I refuse to cry at work.

“Oh, God, this is bad.” Britt looks horrified. She picks up my cell phone, fingers pressing the screen, then she puts it to her ear.

“Hi,” she says after a few seconds. I watch and listen. She orders two sandwiches and salads from the place on the first floor of our building.

“What about your teppan yaki?”

She waves a hand in the air as if the promise of freshly prepared Japanese food is long forgotten.

“Let’s go.” She hands me my purse.

We’re quiet until we get outside with our lunch. Britt has found us a little table off the entrance to the building, and she’s already unwrapping her sandwich.

“So, this weekend’s family trip wasn’t a hit?” She takes a bite. A few strands of julienned lettuce fall onto the table.

“No, that wasn’t it,” I open my sandwich and pick out the onions. Britt takes them from me and hands me her pickles. “Actually, that part was great. Isaac is…” I think back to our weekend. “He’s kind of amazing.” My voice is soft. It feels like an admittance, something I’m not supposed to say out loud.

Britt’s head bobs. Normally she would be hounding me for more information, but she knows there’s more to the story.

“And?”

I set down my food, trading my sandwich for the coral and gold bib necklace I’m wearing. My fingers bump alone the stones. “The town he took us to… Sugar Creek. Their resident blueberry muffin baker—” I stop when Britt’s mouth opens wide.

“No,” she gasps. She knows how, and why, I abhor the baked treat. Her head moves back and forth, slowly. “It’s not possible.”

My lips twist. “I’m afraid so.”

“Please tell me you confronted her. Please tell me you demanded to know what the fuck she’s been doing all these years.” Her fist slams down on the table. She’s half-standing, leaning toward me over the table.

I want to tell her that of course I was brave and strong. Like she would be. I saw the women who broke my heart and demanded answers. But, no.

I was a coward.

Her indignation over, Britt lowers herself until she’s back in her seat. She looks as if she’s in pain. Like Isaac did.

“You didn’t say anything to her, did you?” Her voice is full of pity. Because I did nothing? Or because it was done to me in the first place?

I look at my hands. They’re in my lap now.

“Did she see you?”

I shrug, meeting Britt’s eyes. “I’m not sure. She was carrying a tray of muffins. But she spoke to me. She said she stayed at the same cabin when she came to town eighteen years ago.”

Britt makes a disgusted, grunting sound in the back of her throat.

“I ran out. She must’ve watched me go.” I chew my lip, trying to see myself through her eyes. Or the eyes of the girl at the register. What had I looked like, running away like that? Did I make any noise? Cause a commotion? I was there, I lived it, but for some reason I can’t remember it.

“And she didn’t go after you?”

My eyes close for a long moment. “No.” In hindsight, I’m mad at myself. If only I were stronger. If only I could have spoken her name, forced her to look at me, waited for her to realize who I was. Why couldn’t I do that?

Britt comes to my side of the table, sliding across the bench until she’s beside me. “I’m sorry, Aubrey.”

I want to ask her what she’s sorry about. Is it my inability to speak up? The fact that I’ve just found the woman who abandoned me as a small child? Or that I’ve lost her again?

I choose to stay quiet. I let my best friend’s hug warm my chilled center.

Her love feels much nicer than my anger.

“Have you told your dad?”

My Dad. Somehow I’m going to have to tell him. I don’t know what it will do to him, but he deserves to know.

“Not yet.”

“Soon?”

I nod. I’m dreading it, but I can’t use that as my reason to keep this to myself.

Lunch is over. We go back upstairs to our separate desks. I feel better now, less heavy. I still feel like someone has punched me in the stomach, like it’s one long gasp for air, but it’s not so sharp.

I send Isaac a text.

I need to see my dad tonight. Can you handle Claire?

It takes Isaac two hours to respond, which I expect. His scheduled surgeries are in the afternoons.

A smile pulls up the corners of my mouth. Isaac the fixer. The man who accepts me.

I’m incredibly lucky.





“Do you want to sit outside?” My dad walks ahead of me, leading the way, even though I haven't said yes.

It’s hot, and I’d rather be inside in the air conditioning, but considering what I’m about to tell him, I can acquiesce.

He settles in a seat that’s in direct sun. It’s like he runs on a different thermostat than most people. He loves the heat.

I grab the chair opposite him that’s in partial sun and pull my legs into myself.