Emily lowered her own voice.
“I’m not asking who touched the cardboard first.”
“Well, that sounds exactly like what you’re upset about.”
“I’m telling you I ordered that cake.”
“Then find someone who works here.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do.”
“Good.”
The woman turned again.
Emily stood still.
For one stupid second, tears threatened.
Not because of the cake.
Not really.
Because it was 3:26 on a Friday afternoon and she was exhausted.
Because she had promised Noah that this birthday would feel normal.
Because nothing had felt normal for almost a year.
Eight months earlier, Emily and Noah’s father had separated.
There had been no dramatic betrayal.
No screaming fight.
No secret second family.
Just years of two people becoming worse versions of themselves when they were in the same room.
They had finally accepted that raising Noah between two peaceful homes might be healthier than keeping him inside one unhappy one.
The divorce was not finished.
The emotional part was even less finished.
Noah tried to pretend he was fine.
Emily knew he was not.
His eighth birthday would be the first one after the separation.
His father had called that morning from Denver, where a delayed construction project had kept him from flying home.
Noah had said it was okay.
Then he had quietly asked Emily whether the party was still happening.
“Of course.”
“The cake too?”
“Especially the cake.”
He had smiled.
That smile had made Emily stupidly determined.
Nothing was going to go wrong with the cake.
And now a stranger in a floral blouse was carrying it toward the registers.
Emily abandoned the empty bakery counter and followed.
She found the woman at checkout lane six.
The cake was already on the conveyor belt.
The woman stood directly behind it with one hand resting possessively on top of the box.
Emily stopped at the end of the lane.
“Please don’t scan that yet.”
The cashier looked up.
She was young, maybe twenty-three.
Dark curly hair tied back.
Green Harlow Market apron.
Her name tag read TASHA.
The woman in the floral blouse immediately pushed the cake forward.
“Scan it.”
Tasha looked between them.
Emily approached.
“I’m sorry. I think that is my prepaid bakery order.”
The woman snapped:
“It is not hers.”
Tasha’s eyebrows rose.
Emily held up both hands.
“I ordered a birthday cake three days ago.”
The woman leaned toward the cashier.
“Can you please scan my groceries? Some of us don’t have all afternoon.”
Tasha looked down at the box.
Then at Emily.
“Do you have your receipt?”
“Yes.”
Emily reached into her purse.
Her fingers shook.
She hated that they shook.
It made her feel weak when she was not.
She found the folded receipt tucked behind a pharmacy coupon.
The woman scoffed.
“This is ridiculous.”
Emily handed the paper to Tasha.
The cashier looked at it.
Then at the cake.
“Bakery order?”
“Yes.”
“Name?”
“Emily Carter.”
The floral-blouse woman interrupted.
“I picked up that cake from the public shelf.”
Tasha glanced toward her.
“One second, ma’am.”
“No. Not one second. I am purchasing it.”
Tasha’s expression changed slightly.
Emily noticed.
The cashier was young, but something about her became firmer.
She took both hands away from the register.
“Ma’am, I need to check whether this is a reserved order.”
“It wasn’t reserved.”
“How do you know?”
“Because it was sitting out.”
Tasha looked toward Emily’s receipt again.
Then she reached for the bakery box.
The other woman placed her hand over it.