The house smells incredible when I walk in after finishing at the gym on Friday. The ink isn’t dry but I’m in full-blown training mode. Thanks to my undoing all the damage of my diet during my baseball sabbatical, I’m on a strict no bread, no sugar, no fun regimen. I let myself get a little soft through the center, so I’ve focused on weights and sprints again.
“Hey, kiddo, I found your water bottle in the library.” I set it next to Emma, who’s hunched over her iPad at the bar. I put down my bags by the front door and walk into the kitchen. “Where’s your mom?”
“She got home from doing the present wrapping thing for school and the neighbor next door called because there was an emergency or something. So she’s there.”
I consider going over to see if she needs help, but my stomach growls and more importantly, Emma seems off. “What smells good?”
“Mom made lasagna.” There’s frustration in her voice. “If you came home while she was gone, I’m supposed to tell youdinner’s sitting in the oven to stay warm if you want some. If not, cover it and put it in the fridge.”
“Sweet.” I open the oven door and pull out leftovers, helping myself to a big slab. Time to celebrate going four days without pasta-type carbs. There’s always next week. Grabbing a Diet Pepsi from the fridge, I balance my food as I walk to the bar and ask, “What’s going on?”
“Decimals are stupid.” She looks up from her device and scowls.
I flip the iPad around so I can see what she’s working on. It’s basic stuff, naming tenths, hundredths, thousandths. Then it moves on to making them into fractions. Taking a bite, I study the questions at the end of the section to check out the assignment.
There aren’t too many questions and this seems like something she can do in her sleep. I’ve worked with kids for four months but I’m not fluent in them yet. I’m fake married, and I don’t know what the rules say about offering advice to Emma, but I go for it anyway. Something’s bugging her and it’s not converting three-fourths to a decimal.
“It’s Friday night. Why are you doing homework?” I take another bite and she takes the iPad back.
“Then it’s done and I can relax all weekend.”
She’s way ahead of the curve if she’s thinking like this at ten. I want to praise her and remind her to live a little while digging into what’s bothering her; however, my muscles are sore and if I keep shoveling lasagna in my mouth at this speed, I’m going to go into a happy, warm food coma sooner rather than later. There’s no time to beat around the bush here—I’m going to have to ask straight out. “And what’s bugging you besides math?”
Emma’s eyes meet mine for the first time since I got home,and she’s holding back tears. “Reese invited Lucy to her late over tonight instead of me.”
I make out about half of what she said. “Help me understand what a late over is.”
“It’s where you stay up late and watch movies but you don’t spend the night. Mom doesn’t let me do sleepovers, but I can do late overs.” Ah. I seriously know so little about kids.
“Did you and Reese get in a fight?” I run through things I’ve heard through the grapevine at school. The one nice thing is, they openly discuss who they’re mad at with their friends and I haven’t heard Emma’s name floated around.
“No, I don’t think so.” She furrows her brow. “She always invites a few people over for these, but she said her mom only let her have one friend tonight, and she picked Lucy instead of me.”
I stab my fork on a lasagna noodle. “Well, that sucks.”
“Right? Mom said Lucy’s been sad since her grandpa died, which is why Reese picked her.”
“That might be true but you can still be sad about it.” One thing Stella did well as our guardian was to tell us to never dismiss our feelings. They were valid and it was okay to have them.
She considers this as if she hadn’t thought about it before and sniffs. “They’re going to make a gingerbread house from scratch.”
I’ve never made one that didn’t come in a store-bought kit and tastes like hard cardboard, but I’m going to turn this night around even if I’m exhausted. I already wrecked my meal plan for the day; might as well go all out. “That’s a crazy coincidence because I was planning on making my famous sugar cookies tonight. You wouldn’t want to help me, would you?”
“No, you weren’t,” she rolls her eyes. “I heard you tell Mom you’re not even supposed to eat that junk right now if you want to be fast enough to run the bases and quick enough to cover third.”
“You know what? You’re being a buzzkill, so now you don’t get any.” I shrug, setting my plate into the sink. The pantry is well-stocked for any baking needs, and I help myself to flour and sugar. I haul the KitchenAid onto the counter. Emma’s eyeing me. The internal debate about whether to join in brews on her face. I pull out two eggs from the fridge, grab the salt and the baking soda. Then I go back to the fridge and grab a bunch of eggs, juggling them one at a time until I have six circling through the air.
My random resume talent does the trick. “Okay, I’ll help.” She jumps down off the barstool and grabs the Bluetooth speaker, bringing it to life. “But on one condition.”
“Name it,” I dare her.
“I get to pick the music.”
I motion for her to go ahead and she syncs her iPad to the speaker. A moment later, a boy band fills the kitchen. Emma springs into action, washing her hands, then pulling out measuring cups. She grabs two sticks of butter from the fridge and twists around sassily.
“Bet you don’t know the trick to soften butter?”
“Fill a glass of water and heat it in the microwave, dump the water out and then cover the unwrapped stick of butter with the glass, trapping it in the steam?” I say matter-of-factly.
