“Would you want to make them together? Maybe we could bake them today to honor your grandpa.”
“I think he’d like that. I knowIwould.” I reach out to hug her and show her just how much I appreciate her.
A couple of hours later, I spoon cookie dough onto a baking sheet while Rebecca picks out chunks to pop into her mouth. Despite her lack of help now, she was rather involved in measuring out the ingredients and intermittently washing dishes as we made the dough.
“You know, you’re supposed to wait to eat it until after it’s cooked,” I remark.
“Have you ever tried cookie dough? It’s so much better than cookies!” She picks another glob out of the bowland tosses it into her mouth before adding, “This stuff is especially delicious. It’s like crack.”
Mrs. Martin clears her throat from the dining room table where she is working on her laptop. She gives Rebecca a disapproving look, clearly not enthused about her thirteen-year-old daughter making drug references.
I try to hold in my laughter, but a small chuckle slips free. “You can’t say the cookie dough is better if you haven’t tried the cookies yet.” I slide the first batch into the oven and set a timer. “Just imagine that cookie dough but with melty chocolate chips and an enhanced cinnamon flavor.”
Her eyes roll in the back of her head as she imagines it. “Ugh, my mouth is watering now and there aren’t any baked cookies to eat! I guess I’ll have to eat more dough.” She pinches her fingers together, picking up another chunk.
“Please wait to try the actual cookies. They’re worth the wait.” I look down at the ground, not able to meet her eyes for the next part of what I’m about to say. “Not to be dramatic, but every time you eat more cookie dough, a piece of my soul diesbecause it means there’s that much less dough for the actual cookies. My grandpa and I never ate the cookie dough.”
A small wave of sadness washes over me. It’s hitting me now how weird it is to make these cookies without Grandpa. “I need to go wash the cookie dough off my hands,” I mutter and beeline for the bathroom.
Rebecca watches me exit the kitchen. I can see the worried, knowing look on her face. I don’t want to make her feel bad. I know this is just her goofy personality shining through and a failed attempt at trying to act like everything is normal for my sake. I wash my hands and hover over the sink, sucking in a deep breath and trying to hold back the tears. I’m so tired of crying. There have been so many tears today.
There’s a knock on the door. “I’ll be out in a sec to helpscoop the dough for the next sheet,” I say to Rebecca, trying to hide the shakiness in my voice.
“Are you okay?” It’s Andrew’s soft whisper.
I crack the door open and peer up at him with watery eyes. “I’m fine. Did you need the bathroom?”
He shakes his head. “No, I just saw you walk by and thought you didn’t look so good. I heard what happened. How are you doing?”
I shrug. “I’m sad, but Rebecca has helped a lot. I’m just having another moment. I’ll be fine,” I insist, stepping out of the bathroom. “Thanks for checking on me.”
I start moving toward the kitchen, but he quickly pulls me into his embrace. He squeezes tight and holds on for a little longer than I expected. I let myself sink into the warming comfort of his touch and the dull smell of his cologne.When did he start wearing cologne?
We finally pull away, and I look up at him again, blushing a little. I swear he is too, as if he regrets holding me the extra two seconds. He abruptly takes a step back and throws an arm behind his head, playing with his hair. “I’m here if you need someone besides Rebecca to talk to.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it.”
We exchange one final lingering look before I step away and head back into the kitchen. Rebecca hops off the counter and rushes to me. “I’m sorry for eating the cookie dough. We can make another batch. We can bake all day if you want! Whatever helps you, we will do.”
I grab her hand and squeeze it. “It’s ok. I’m just a little emotional right now and need some time. I know you’re trying hard to be here for me, and I appreciate it.” I peer across the counter, looking for the bowl of cookie dough so we can start making another tray to go in the oven. “What’d you do with the dough?”
“I had to give it to my mom so she could guardit and make sure I wouldn’t eat any more.” She gestures to the dining room table where the bowl sits.
I burst into laughter. “Just wait until the cookies come out of the oven. If you think the dough is that good, you have another thing coming.” I think for a moment. “We better make a second batch.”
Rebecca immediately rushes to pull more butter out of the fridge and goes into the pantry to find the sugars, flour, and baking soda. “On it!”
The timer goes off, and I pull the cookies out of the oven. They’re perfectly fluffy and have slightly golden edges, the sign that they’re done. I set them on the stove and look for my spoon to begin preparing another baking sheet with cookies. “Do you want to help me, Becs, or do I need to keep you away from the dough still?”
“I should be okay now that I can try a cookie fresh from the oven.”
Holding my arm out to stop her, I explain, “The cookies need to sit on the tray for about five minutes to finish cooking through. Then you can try one.”
“Then I take it back. Keep me away from that drug, please!” Mrs. Martin looks up again with narrowed eyes and Rebecca chooses to completely ignore her. “Why do we have to wait five more minutes? I’m so weak! I need help.”
A smile crosses my face as I roll my eyes. “Trust me, they’re worth the wait. You can start measuring the sugar again to keep busy.” I scoop more dough onto the tray.
After five minutes, I pluck a cookie off the tray and hand it to Rebecca on a napkin. “Here.”
