“Good call on the finger foods,” Piper says, wiping her hands on one of the napkins I grabbed last-minute. “Although you should’ve let me pitch in. I could’ve brought dessert.”
I dig into the bottom of the bag and pull out two plastic-wrapped cookies.
She grins. “You thought of everything!”
I thought of her. Last night, before I fell asleep. This morning, during my run. This afternoon, while I was reading poolside, picking up food, getting ready for the beach.
It worries me, how constantly she’s been on my mind.
It was the same when Whitney and I started going out. We hung out all the time, and when we weren’t together, we texted continuously. We shared our locations and checked in on eachother way too often. On the rare occasions we weren’t in contact, I got lost thinking about her. In those earliest months, my grades took a dip and my run times slowed; Silas and Ricky gave me shit about losing my edge. My mom became concerned. Still, she couldn’t hide how happy she was that I was spending time with a fun, charismatic girl. Eventually, I got a handle on my schoolwork and improved my times. Whit was at our house more often than not. My friends warmed up to her. Mom declared us a great match. In the beginning, I thought we were too.
Is that how everyone falls—hard and fast, powerless to stop their descent?
But this won’t be like last time. I won’t lose myself. Piper won’t ask me to.
“Chocolate chip and oatmeal raisin,” I tell her, holding out the cookies. “Your pick.”
“Chocolate chip. Obviously. Fruit has no place in a cookie.”
She’s so random and opinionated, open to delving deep into the most ridiculous topics. I like this about her, probably because I’m the same.
I give her a quizzical look. “Raisins are fruits?”
“They’re dried grapes, smarty-pants.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Wouldn’t you call a prune a fruit?”
“I’d call a prune inedible. Anyway, that’s a ballsy statement:Fruit has no place in a cookie. What about Fig Newtons?”
She wrinkles her nose. “Yeah. Gross.”
I concede, inhaling my fruit-studded dessert, wracking mybrain for an example of a delicious cookie that’s got fruit in it. I’m struggling. Maybe she’s on to something. But then, in the recesses of my memory, a light bulb flickers on. “My mom used to make these cookies at Christmastime. They were shortbread, I think, but she’d put a scoop of strawberry jam in the middle. They were fucking amazing.”
“She doesn’t make them anymore?”
“Not these last few years. Once I was in high school, she started taking holiday shifts at the hospital that no one else wanted. She figured she’d let the parents with little kids stay home on Thanksgiving and Christmas. So the cookie-baking fizzled. But I’m telling you, those strawberry shortbreads were the shit.”
“Okay, point made. If your mom ever offers me a jam cookie, I’ll try it.”
“You won’t regret it. Does Tati make Christmas cookies?”
“Ha! She makes lean meats and vitamin-rich vegetables, and that’s about it. Gabi’s mom makes dozens and dozens of holiday treats, though, starting the first day of December. Peanut butter bars and eggnog cookies and these rolled pecan cookies covered in powdered sugar. So good. I spend a couple of hours at their house every Christmas Eve. Gabi’s parents make me feel like family.”
She so seldom brings up Gabi, I want to keep her talking. “Do you guys get each other presents?”
She nods. “The first Christmas we were friends, in fourth grade, we both got each other books by chance. We’ve done that every year since—a book swap. This year, though…” Her smileflattens. “I guess I won’t need to go to the bookstore.” She shakes her head, so gloomy now that my heart squeezes.
“I’ll trade books with you,” I offer.
EyeingDereliction of Duty, she makes a sour face. “I’m not sure our literary tastes mesh. I’ll buy youDelphina of the Starlit Seaand grill you on every juicy chapter.”
“Then I’ll buy you something nonfiction and dense, like…Undaunted Courage.” I blow out a reverential breath. “Lewis and Clark, man.”
She laughs, then finishes her cookie, crumpling its wrapper and dropping it into the bag with the rest of our trash. “Do you know what Tati and your dad are up to tonight?”
“No idea. I ask him as few questions as possible. He takes any display of interest as an invitation to do or say something outrageously inappropriate, like throwing boxes of condoms at me or inquiring about which bases I’ve rounded.”
