“It doesn’t feel like Christmas until I’ve eaten gingersnaps,” he says. He rolls the dough into a ball and then hands it to me to dip in sugar. At first, the touch of his skin sent a thrill through me that zinged all the way to my chest. Now, every time we touch or graze each other, it feels familiar, but wonderfully so. Like that sigh of relief and acceptance you feel when someone hugs you.
“That’s how I feel about my mom’s nuts and bolts,” I say.
“What are those?”
“They’re like Chex Mix. You know my mom was Canadian, right? Nuts and bolts is the Canadian version. They use different cereals there—Shreddies instead of Wheat Chex and Crispix instead of the other kinds. It’s my favorite snack in the world.”
“I love Canadian chocolate,” he says, handing me another rolled ball of dough. “Whenever I play a game in Toronto, I fill my suitcase with Canadian Smarties and Aero bars.”
“Oh, Aero,” I say with a sigh. “But you haven’t lived until you’ve tried Crunchie bars. And Hickory Sticks!”
Soon, I’m telling Coop everything about Canadian goodies and my favorite parts of Canada, including Banff and Waterton National Parks and the Canadian side of Niagara Falls. And the more I talk, the easier it is to mention my mom without my throat threatening to close.
“Half of my mom’s family lives in the US now, and half are scattered across Canada. But everyone gets together for Christmas Adam—that’s the Stewart family way. They’ll fly in just for Christmas Adam and take a flight home on Christmas Eve so they can spend the rest of the holiday with their in-laws in Edmonton or Toronto. We used to take turns flying to the different families’ houses, but when my mom got sick, everyone started coming to Chicago. My uncle transferred for work so he could be nearby, and everything.”
“Wow,” Coop says. “I can’t imagine everyone traveling like that. We’ve never traveled anywhere for Christmas. My parents are both only children, and so am I.”
My brothers are twerps, to steal Kayla Carville’s word, but I can’t imagine life without them. My heart clenches imagining Coop and his parents in their little apartment by themselves year after year. That’s probably patronizing to even consider, though. “That sounds lonely. But cozy.”
“You just summed up my childhood,” he says. He takes the sugar cookie dough out of the fridge and swaps it for the rolled gingersnaps. Then he spreads flour all over the counter and starts rolling out the dough with the efficiency of a pastry chef.
“You reallyarean elverino wizard,” I laugh.
He grabs a pinch of flour and flicks it in my face.
I sneeze. “Rude.”
“I can call myself an elverino wizard. It’s offensive when you do it.”
I grin, but it softens into something sweet and a little sad as I watch him press an angel cookie cutter into the dough. “My mom collected cute angel figurines, and that cookie cutter was her favorite. We made cookies with it a lot when I was little. I called them Guardian Angel cookies, but my brothers called them Herald cookies.”
“Harold? Who’s Harold?”
“Like ‘Hark! The Herald Angels Sing,’” I say.
Coop sighs like I’ve just said something sad. He wipes his hands on the ruffly red apron. Then he puts his strong arms around me and pulls me into a hug. “Herald Cookies is such a better name than Guardian Angel cookies. I’m sorry, but I have to give it to your brothers on this one.”
I laugh, resting my cheek on his chest. “Whatever. Guardian Angel cookies is cute.”
“It’s basic. Bush league, even,” he says, smoothing my hair like I’m sobbing instead of laughing over cookie names.
“Was this just an excuse to hug me?” I ask.
Coop leans us to one side and then to the other, his arms firm around my back. “Do you even have to ask?”
No, I did not. I don’t mind the confirmation, though.
The oven beeps, and Coop gives me one final squeeze before releasing me. “Thanks for letting me come bake with you. This is the first time in my life I haven’t been able to bake with my mom during the Christmas season. I didn’t realize how much I missed it.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” I say.
By ten p.m., I have three dozen gorgeously decorated sugar cookies, four dozen melt-aways, another four dozen gingersnaps, and flour on my nose.
Oh, and Cooper Kellogg’s arms around me.
“Thanks for coming,” I say for the tenth time.
“Thanks for letting me invite myself over,” he says for the eleventh.
