When somehow, Amanda and I will be breaking up.
That’s what has me in a mood.
It’s not Uncle Rob. It’s not wedding stress. It’s not last night. It’s not any of our grandparents.
It’s breaking up with Amanda.
She’s been in my life for less than a week, but I already miss spending hours of every day with her. I miss how easy it is to smile at her. I miss how funny she is and how thoughtful she is.
I tell myself both of us are on our best behavior this week, putting more effort into being the perfect partners than either of us would if this were real, if we lived in the same city, but I don’t believe myself.
I’d race her to the kitchen to make coffee in the mornings.
I’d order her fruitcake as often as she wanted it.
I’d go explore with her anytime she wanted company.
I’d take her with me to Thailand just to watch her face light up every time she discovered something new.
But that’s not my future. This isn’treal.
No matter how real it felt last night.
Lorelei and I head down the hallway toward the kitchen. Unlike the last time I was here, it sounds like the mixer is running just fine. The hallway smells even stronger of fresh gingerbread.
We crack the door and peek inside.
Amanda’s bent over a sheet of dough, pressing cookie cutters into it while her grandmother supervises, pointing to the dough and making Amanda move her cookie cutter.
“She’s really not built for this,” Lorelei murmurs.
Agreed.
She looks like she belongs in the kitchen about as much as a zebra belongs at a spa.
Or possibly less so.
A zebra might enjoy a spa day. Who am I to judge?
But Amanda’s jaw is tight. Her lips are turned down, and her shoulders are bunched. I’ve had only a few days to get to know her, but Ihave a pretty good idea that she’s up in her head, unhappy with how the morning has gone but uncertain how to say so.
The exact opposite of how my sister would look if she were in this kitchen.
But that’s not happening.
We’ve worked a few miracles this week, but getting Lorelei hired in the Gingerbread House?
That’s a pipe dream.
I push into the kitchen. Lorelei follows.
Vicki glances at us, and her cheek twitches.
But when Amanda’s gaze meets mine, all I feel is gratitude.
Gratitude from her that we’re here. Gratitude of my own that I can bring a hint of a smile back to her face, even if her eyes are shiny and her chin is doing that wobbling thing again. “Hey,” she says. “I have successfully not murdered any gingerbread this morning.”
“Kitchen’s closed,” Vicki says.
