The icing tubes had been passed back and forth, half of them clogged, the rest sticky with fingerprints. There were bowls of sprinkles, crushed Oreos, and something Bea insisted was edible glitter, though Georgina had doubts.
Bea leaned on one elbow, giggling as she tried to pipe a smiley face onto a crooked balloon-shaped cookie. “Okay, this is harder than I remember.”
“That’s because you’re trying to make itcute,” Georgina said, smearing pink icing in broad, unapologetic strokes. “You’re supposed to go feral.”
“Youwouldsay that,” Nate replied, without looking up.
His cookie was a perfectly even circle of white with two blue dots in the center. Not fun. Not festive. Professional.
“That looks like a surveillance drone,” Bea said, peering over.
Nate didn’t look up. “It’s a balloon.”
Georgina snorted. “You’ve never seen a balloon in your life.”
“I’ve studied diagrams.”
Bea nearly choked on her laugh.
Across the table, Gage added a line of green frosting to the edge of his cookie, hand steady, expression impassive. His looked like it belonged in a gallery window. Modern, minimal, absolutely intentional.
Georgina made a face. “Of courseyoursis perfect.”
“It’s symmetrical.”
Gage’s thumb brushed the edge of the cookie Bea had made—purple icing smeared, a puffy pink heart, half collapsed. He didn’t eat it. He just moved it a little closer to his plate, next to his perfect one, like a matched set.
“Did anyone here actually do this as a kid?” Bea asked, starting with a fresh cookie. “Like, real sugar-cookie birthdays?”
“Mine weren’t like this,” Georgie replied. “My birthdays were alwayssophisticated. My mother made sure there was a gift table with a color palette. We had a harpist once.”
Bea blinked. “Aharpist?”
“Mm-hmm.” Georgina grinned. “But one year, my dress got muddy and I screamed, and that was the last time we were allowed outdoor games.”
“What was the best one?” Bea asked.
Georgina paused. Her smile turned wistful. “I had a pool party once. I was five. My cousin threw my cake into the deep end.”
“Wasn’t that me?” Gage asked.
She grinned. “Yes.”
Bea laughed so hard she dropped her icing tube.
“Nate?” Georgina prompted.
Nate tapped his cookie thoughtfully. “There was one year,” he said. “I was twelve. My sister and I stayed with our grandmother. She forgot it was my birthday.”
Georgina made a quiet noise. “Ouch.”
He shrugged. “She let us eat cereal for dinner and stay up late watching cartoons.”
Bea’s voice was soft. “So you got childhood for your birthday.”
“Briefly,” Nate said. He adjusted the point of his party hat, like it was the one detail he could still control.
Bea turned to Gage. “What about you?”
