Dirty Secrets

Sugar Rush

There was nothing like taking my aggression out on a lump of innocent dough.

With my hands covered in flour, I kneaded the thick blob against the stainless-steel counter. Punching it softly, my broad knuckles disappeared into the elastic substance. Between the hot oven and my assault on the dough, I'd worked up a sweat.

It was troubling how much space Jessica occupied in my mind since seeing her earlier on the beach.

She hadn't been happy to see me. But why should she have been? After we found out she wasn't pregnant, I'd let Dad to talk me into joining the military. Then I'd disappeared from Jessica's life.

I hadn't fought for her, and I should have. There was no way she could have known I'd intended to come back for her. I figured it would be a couple years, tops. Those plans had gone to shit.

The heels of my hands pushed the dough into the counter as if it had offended me.

The first year I was in the Marines, I'd blamed my dad for persuading me to enlist. Well, I'd blamed Jessica too, on the really bad days, figuring if she hadn't had the pregnancy scare, things between me and the old man wouldn't have blown up like they had.

But when I was in my second year, I'd actually become grateful to both of them for leading me to my true calling. Joining the Marines had made me a man. I'd been proud of what I was doing over there in Afghanistan, of fighting the good fight for democracy. I'd believed in all that.

Then Steve died, and I was wounded.

I glanced at the clock over the bakery door. I'd been kneading for ten minutes. It was time to put the dough in the proof box. It was seven at night, and I was trying out new recipes for the menu, trying to keep my hands and mind busy.

Sleep wasn't an option tonight. Sleep was something to be feared. Sure, I still had the bottle of Ambien, but I wasn't going to take it while here in Palmira. Imagine if I ended up at Jessica's in some zombie-like state? Or worse. Jesus.

But not taking the Ambien meant there would be nightmares. I'd have to white-knuckle through them. Or there was plenty of shit to do besides sleep. Paperwork and orders and managing the contractors...

Details raced through my mind. In its first months, I needed to shepherd the bakery toward success to prove something to my father—if I even had that long. I shuddered thinking of the shitty possibilities if I was caught for what had happened back home. How had I even done it? Screw the war, and screw this PTSD.

I picked up another loaf of already proofed dough and nestled it into a greased pan. Shifting toward the hot oven, I opened it and slid the uncooked bread inside.

Stepping back, I wiped sweat from my brow. It wasn't like it was necessary for me to go through this charade of doing everything himself. Dad could have easily brought bakers from New Orleans and hired someone to oversee the building's renovations. But the old man said he wanted his son to build this with his own two hands, start this bakery from scratch like he had so many years ago after leaving the Marine Corps.