I visually examined the other things around the container in the trash. It could potentially be unearthed. “Well, I try not to eat stuff out of the trash. I’m not a raccoon.”
Harper skipped into the room, her most frequent mode of transportation in our house. “What cookies?”
I ran my tongue along my teeth. “So neither of you put this container of perfectly good cookies in the trash?”
“Who throws away cookies, Daddy?” Harper asked, as perplexed as I was.
I could think of one person who would do that, and they shared half of her DNA. I lowered my phone into the trash can and snapped a picture.
Did you throw these out
SYDNEY
Neither you nor the kids should be eating that kind of sugar
Who brought them
Some short woman
…can you give me more than that
Ginger
Mara?
Sounds right
It’s illegal to throw out someone’s mail
It wasn’t mail
Were you ever going to tell me she came by?
I threw my phone down on the counter and peeked back into the trash can. “If we dig these cookies out of the trash, can you guys not tell your mom?”
The answer was enthusiastic.
“We owe Aspen’s mom a review of her cookies, don’t you think?”
I fought a flash of warmth through my body. Mara had done the very good-neighbor thing of not only returning my container, but making something to go in it.
Fuck it. Nothing in the trash around it looked wet and the box was sealed. This was an ideal dig-out-of-the-trash situation.
“Get out the milk, Harp. We’re having a little snack.”
I plunged my hand into the trash can and rescued the cookies, then got down three glasses and a fresh plate. As I was pouring the milk, I shoved most of a cookie in my mouth andholy shit. All my body’s pleasure hormones fired. They were perfectly buttery, sweet, and chocolatey, with the right mix of crunch and tenderness.
Damn, Mara.
I finished the rest of that one by putting my head back and gobbling the bit that hung out of my mouth.
“Fuck, those are good,” I said, picking up another one as I transferred the rest of them to a clean plate.
“Daddy!” Harper said. “Don’t eat them all!”
“I have to,” I shrugged. “I’m the cookie monster. I’m just not in my blue suit.”
I snapped a picture of my third cookie with a bite out of it, the kids smiling with their cookies and milk mustaches.
