“I’d love to.” With flour covered fingers, I pinch the front of her shirt and pull until our lips meet. She tightens her arms around my waist and deepens the kiss. Our tongues dance together, increasing in an urgency that tells me this kitchen isn’t cursed after all.
Then the oven beeps.
A needy groan falls from our lips.
“Let’s continue this later. Oven’s ready,” I say with a promise to deliver. I hand her a rolling pin. “Time to cut out the cookies.”
She pecks my lips and pops a piece of smoked gouda into her mouth. “I’ll go get the wine first.”
Ember follows Kez to the wine cellar, and they’re gone for a few minutes. Kez returns to the kitchen, a bottle of my favorite merlot from Elixir Wines in each hand. She holds up her arms. “For later. Let me know when you’re ready.”
I turn to look at the oven clock, wait until a minute passes, then I tilt my head, a toothy grin on my face. “It’s later.”
She laughs and fills two wine glasses to the brim, then adds the rest into a Dutch oven. Then she adds orange slices and cinnamon sticks. “Now, we have our daily serving of fruit checked off,” she says.
“I love the way you think.”
We sit side by side, rolling out dough on the floured marble, stealing sips of wine when we can until there are two thin sheets.
Kez picks up the Christmas tree cookie cutter and presses it into the dough. “It’s been years since I’ve made these. The last time was with you and Clara.”
“Those days were fun.” I smile at the childhood memory and leave out the part that I never stopped our sugar cookie tradition, even if they had. I meticulously pull the candy cane shape from the rest of the dough. “Your mom would make a giant pot of hot chocolate while we decorated them.”
“Someonewould eat half the icing before we even started.” Kez reaches for the snowflake cookie cutter.
We share a teasing grin, then simultaneously blurt out, “Clara.”
Laughter echoes throughout the kitchen as we continue cutting shapes while Ember watches intently from the other room. As we drift into a comfortable silence, the mention of our old childhood friend still lingers in my mind, making me think back to my wedding day.
When Clara found me in the alley, tears streaming down my face, makeup ruined and in complete shambles, she didn’t ask questions. Not an ounce of judgement in her eyes, only comfort and care when I needed it the most. She brought me back upstairs, and in less than thirty minutes, I was walking down the aisle like nothing had happened. Then I blamed being a busy newlywed for not trying to work things out between us.
My gaze drops to the sheet pan lined with unbaked cookies, and guilt tugs at my chest. Clara was always there for us growing up. Meanwhile, Kez and I built a second universe she was never invited into. Instead of friendship, we offered lies, inside jokes she wasn’t part of and a front row seat to a relationship she never had the opportunity to understand. Regardless of the fact that it was unintentional, we hurt Clara and lost her in the process.
Romantic breakups hurt like hell, but losing a best friend is a different kind of heartbreak that never goes away.
I finally break the silence. “I think we should apologize to Clara.”
Kez halts her movements. “Where’d that come from?”
“Just sitting here thinking. I can respect if she doesn’t want to be in my life afterward, but I’m not proud of how I treated her. How we treated her. Clara should know that.”
She’s quiet for a minute, then meets my eyes, her lips turned downward. “You’re right. We really weren’t good friends to her. I tried to apologize, but I feel like I only made it worse.”
“We can do it together if you’d like. After the holidays.”
She nods, accepting my offer. “We’re going to need a lot more cookies, though.”
I let out a small laugh. “Yes, we are.”
We quietly continue working until two sheet pans are lined with cookies.
Thankfully, Kez changes the subject. She reaches for something sitting on the floor by her feet, then puts a dusty box in front of me. “I almost forgot. Look what else I found.”
I study the faded letters. “A gingerbread house? This thing expired five years ago.”
“Maybe the seller bought it and kept saying they’d build one, but never did.” She beams a smile. “Want to put it together?”
I give her a look and open my mouth to decline, but she’s already opening the box.
