Protesting is futile. I know I have a history of running in the face of a challenge. In childhood, I went through phases. There was my acting phase—did one commercial and got mad they cut my lines. Never auditioned again. There was my diving phase—got an Olympic-level coach, climbed the ladder to the board for the first time, and chickened out. Never went back. Kept the Speedo though.
In adulthood, I’m sure they’re referencing my brief stint at NYU after Mom pulled all the strings to get me accepted. My grades were less than stellar and my application was written by someone I paid, so there’s that.
“This is different. I don’t quit at things I’m good at, and I’mverygood at parties.”
Grandma sighs. “That might be well and true, but the two of you don’t seem like a match made in event-planning heaven. No offense to either of you.”
Offense taken.
Yes, I shirked their offer before, but it’s still torture to know that even my grandparents think I can’t be serious. My successful parents have always begrudged my lack of drive, but to be fair, who needs drive when you have a driver? Who needs perseverance when you can just give up on ice-skating and pick up rhythmic gymnastics? Hard work may feed the soul, but my soul was fed with constant change based on my moody whims.
I was never in town long enough to get good at competitive double Dutch, too busy being whisked off to a television studio or a promotional tour to play prop at. My ballet teacher thought Mom’s books were a tawdry plague on society—too much fantastical sex and bloody violence—and belittled me before every class, making my stomach hurt at the thought of showing up to the next one. That’s not even to touch upon the recreational soccer league I joined in middle school that used my picture—wearing horrendous neon orange shin guards, I might add—on all the advertising materials, but never rotated me in to play.
Excuse me for falling into traps that were laid and set for me long ago.
But, again, I guess that’s partially why I’m here. To undo the undoable. So, I hoist myself up and say straightforwardly, “What do I need to do to prove to you that I—we—can do this?”
Grandma and Gramps look at each other, bemused, before Grandma’s gaze drifts outside. A delightful pucker appears on her face. “Since you two don’t seem like a pair we can hang our hats on, especially after all the ruckus we saw and heard the other night”—the closet fight seems like an eternity ago now—“I have a task for you.”
With oatmeal on the edges of his lips, Hector says, “I have finals to study for.”
“Oh, it’ll only take an hour or so.” She dances into the kitchen where she already has ingredients laid out on the island. “Noelle loves to send me cookie recipes from Pinterest. I planned on trying one today since I can’t open the shop, but I have another idea.” She pulls a box of chai tea bags from the pantry and a carton of eggnog from the fridge. Slapping both down on the island, she smiles. “My arthritis is acting up, so I think you boys should do the honors.”
I already don’t like this. Nothing about baking has ever appealed to me. The measuring, the precision, the waiting to eat carbs. It’s all crap. Even the gentle, comfort viewing ofThe Great British Baking Showdispleases me. This is not how I hoped to be spending my day. I want to vision board or go to town in my planning notebook. Not get my hands down and dirty in raw cookie dough.
But Grandma’s practically jumping up and down, or whatever the old lady version of that is, sonodoesn’t seem like an acceptable answer. I glance over at Hector, who appears intrigued by the challenge.
“What kind of cookies are we talking about?” Hector asks, licking his lips, like that bowl of oatmeal didn’t even register in his stomach. He’s ready for dessert.
“Chai sugar cookies with eggnog icing,” she says. Hector moans. “You have all the ingredients you need. Just have to follow the instructions and work together.” Grandma claps her hands. “Oh, this is going to be great! It’s like having a mini baking competition right here in our home!”
“Does that make us the judges?” Gramps asks, rubbing his belly.
Grandma snaps her fingers. “Doug, that’s genius! Not only do you have to bake the cookies but we’ll score you too. If you two can work together to make a tasty Christmas cookie, then I think I can trust you both to plan our gala.”
My aversion to Christmas is a cumbersome Yule log in my stomach right now.
“Need I remind you, you don’t have many other options and very little time? This seems like a waste when I could be researching chefs and designing centerpieces.” Anything but this.
“Suck it up, dude. It’s just a cookie. It can’t be that hard.” Hector pats my shoulder, the first moment of intentional contact we’ve ever had. His warm hand lingers longer than it should; the heat of his palm burns right through my shirt.
“We’ll be in our room watching TV if you need us,” Grandma says. “Holler when you’re ready to be evaluated.”
Gramps adds as he goes, “Just don’t destroy anything, please.”
Well, I guess the only thing I’m planning to destroy now is their expectations.
“Fire extinguisher is under the sink!” Grandma yells, then shuts their door.
Before I know it, I’m donning an apparently feminist apron that reads MRS. CLAUS DESERVES ALL THE CREDIT and reading through a printout of a recipe. A total waste of paper, but whatever. Hector collects the bowls and spoons and measuring cups we’ll need, since I wouldn’t know where anything is nor am I particularly versed in baking instruments.
As he reaches to grab the mixer, his long-sleeved T-shirt rides up his torso, revealing a treasure trail of black hairs. I busy myself by preheating the oven to 350, so I don’t get caught staring. Our proposition conversation is still weighing heavily on my mind.
I pause over the instructions. That can’t be right.Beat the butter in a large bowl for about a minute.Beat?
I shrug. After unwrapping the stick of unsalted butter, I wash my hands, set a timer on my watch, and go to town, punching that yellow sucker into submission. Yet another way I can pummel out my frustrations about being stuck—
“Dude, what the hell are you doing?” Hector catches the bowl before it flies off the counter from the force of my inexperienced fist.
