It was a bit of a struggle, but I managed to pull out the fridge and oven enough to annihilate the dust bunnies and decayed food, some so rotted or hardened that I couldn’t tell what it was in its original form.
It was a fun guessing game, though—it kept me distracted enough to avoid dwelling on the unsettling thought that the walls of this silent box might be closing in on me.
Like focusing on the little shriveled fuzzy ball that I gawked at for longer than I needed to, wondering if, at one point, it was a runaway blueberry that rolled under the fridge and disappeared.
Rossco is lying on the sparkling floor with his head on his paw, his ears perking every time the bass drops from the speakers playing my music through the kitchen. There may be no sweet voices echoing through the halls or the patter of bare feet sprinting through the house, but I sure as hell can makemy own noise—keep myself company as I’ve practically done my entire life.
I glance at the clock on the microwave and release a heavy sigh. It’s almost noon, and I’m already bored. Each tap of my foot on the wood flooring shuffles through the illusory box of ideas in my head.
Cookies. Now that’s an idea. The sugary scent will battle the nose-numbing chemicals hanging heavily in the air.
I could pull up a Pinterest pin since I suck at baking, but instead, my fingers snatch my phone off the counter. I pause the music and tap the contact app to locate Adelaide’s phone number.
I’ve visited her each morning after dropping Elena and Tristan off at school. Sometimes, when it’s slow—since not as many tourists visit Cedar Creek Cove now that school has started back up—she will sit and have a cup of coffee with me.
She’s quickly becoming a friend, and in my short time visiting her, I’ve gained a deeper understanding of Adelaide and Cameron’s bond. They have been inseparable since they were twelve, when they met on a cliffside. He asked her out several times over the years, but she always politely declined. When I asked why, she told me that her relationship with him was too meaningful to screw up. Which I get entirely when you don’t have a lot of them to begin with.
Eventually, he stopped asking, and they continued on like it had never happened. Internally, I called bullshit the moment she said it—I saw her knuckles whiten as she gripped the coffee cup, her throat working as if she were trying to swallow down the truth threatening to surface.
I click on the phone icon and put it on speaker. After a few seconds, the call connects, her bright voice filling the kitchen.
“I didn’t think you’d be using my number so fast,” she laughs over the sound of some clanking metal drifting over the line. “I just gave it to you this morning.”
I lean over the counter and chuckle. “I’ve already missed your voice. And I’m incredibly bored at home and want to bake.”
“Oooh. You called the right person, then!”
“I know shit about baking, but I want to make some chocolate chip cookies. Do you have an easy recipe I could follow? Possibly one that’s I-suck-at-baking-proof.”
“Okay, first, go into the pantry.”
“All right,” I drawl, picking up my phone and stepping over Rossco to the pantry door. I open it and walk inside, flicking on the light to illuminate the shelves.
Every time I step into the pantry, images of Cameron and me flash across my vision. Our mingling clothes thrown haphazardly across the floor. His head between my legs. Those green eyes observing me firmly as I came apart from his mouth.
I would’ve settled for the floor if I had known how often Elena and Tristan use the stool. Now, it haunts me. Whenever they climb onto it to collect something off a shelf, my mind wanders back to the memory of my legs spread out, melting for Cameron’s talented tongue and his fingers as I found my release.
I blink away the vision, focusing back on the task. “What next?”
“Go to the very back and look at the middle shelf. There will be some—”
“Oh my God, you’re a witch!” I squeal, instantly eyeing the large mason jars. I grasp onto one, turning it over in my hands to read the recipe taped onto the jar in beautiful handwriting.
Her vibrant laughter rings in my ears. “Cameron always craves my chocolate chip cookies, so I usually send him home with several jars to last the month. He’s also horrible at baking.”
“Thank you, that makes this so much easier.”
“Just don’t burn them,” she warns. “The time on the directions will cook them to a gooey texture—” A faint chime interrupts her, and I pause, trying to place the sound. The faint ring registers—it’s the bell on the front door of The Honey Hut alerting Adelaide that someone has walked in.
“I have to go. Happy baking!” She ends the call, leaving me smiling at the jar.
Thirty minutes later, I’m standing at the counter licking the dough off the spoon. It might be controversial, but eating raw dough is my favorite part of baking. Not that I do it often, but cookie dough makes me happy, and who am I to deny myself that kind of simple pleasure? Butter and sugar are the ways to my heart.
No wonder Cameron always craves Adelaide’s cookies. If the batter is this good, I can only imagine how delicious the cookies are once they’re fluffy, baked disks of addictive perfection.
My eyes dart to the oven timer, the neon green light reminding me that I have ten minutes before I need to take them out.
“If I” by Limi blares through the kitchen speakers. I munch on a chocolate chip, my hips absentmindedly swaying as my tongue swipes across the spatula, the sweet flavor dancing on my taste buds.
