Several seconds pass with us just standing there and I realize that I should probably be the one speaking right now, since I’m the one who showed up at her house.
God, why does every single thing about her throw me off like this?
“Hey,” she says.
Her calm voice is like a breath of fresh air. She doesn’t seem pissed that I’m here unannounced. “Hi,” I say, returning her greeting.
Another round of awkward silence ensues and she tilts her head to the side. “Um . . .” She squints and crinkles up her nose and I can tell she’s not sure what to do or say next.
“You busy?” I ask her, knowing just by the disarray of her appearance that whatever she was doing, she was working hard at it.
She turns and glances back into her house, then faces me again. “Sort of.”
I take her reply for what it is. She’s obviously trying not to be rude, but I can see that this stupid idea of mine to just show up announced was just that . . . a stupid idea.
I glance at my car behind me, gauging how far the walk of shame I’m about to take will be. “Yeah,” I say, pointing over my shoulder at my car. “I guess I’ll . . . go.” I take a step down and begin to turn toward my car, wishing I was anywhere but in this awkward predicament.
“No,” she says quickly. She takes a step back and opens the door for me. “You can come in, but you might be put to work.”
Instant relief overcomes me and I nod, walking inside. A quick glance around the living room makes it appear that she might be the only one home right now. I hope she is, because it would make things a lot easier if it were just the two of us.
She walks around me and into the kitchen. She picks up a measuring cup and resumes whatever it was she was doing before I showed up on her doorstep. Her back is to me and she’s quiet. I slowly make my way into the kitchen and eye the baked goods lining her bar.
“You prepping for a bake sale?” I ask, making my way around the bar so that her back isn’t completely to me.
“My mom’s out of town for the weekend,” she says, glancing up at me. “She’s antisugar, so I kind of go crazy when she’s not here.”
Her mom’s out of town, so she bakes? I really can’t figure this girl out. I reach over to the plate of cookies between us on the bar and pick one up, looking to her for permission to try it.
“Help yourself,” she says. “But be warned, just because I like to bake doesn’t mean I’m good at it.” She refocuses her attention to the bowl in front of her.
“So you get the house to yourself and you spend Friday night baking? Typical teenager,” I tease. I take a bite of the cookie and
“What can I say?” she says with a shrug. “I’m a rebel.”
I smile, then eye the plate of cookies again. There have to be a dozen there and I plan on eating at least half of them before she kicks me out of her house. I’m gonna need milk.
She’s still intensely focused on the bowl in front of her, so I take it upon myself to find my own glass. “Got any milk?” I ask, making my way to the refrigerator. She doesn’t answer my question, so I open the refrigerator and remove the milk, then pour myself a glass. I finish the rest of the cookie, then take a drink. I wince, because whatever the hell this is, it’s not real milk. Or it’s rotten. I glance at the label before shutting the refrigerator and see that it’s almond milk. I don’t want to be rude, so I take another drink and turn around.
She’s looking straight at me with an arched eyebrow. I smile. “You shouldn’t offer cookies without milk, you know. You’re a pretty pathetic hostess.” I swipe another cookie and take a seat at the bar.
She grins right before she turns around to face the counter again. “I try to save my hospitality for
I laugh. “Ouch.”
The sarcasm in her voice is nice, though, because it helps ease my tension. She powers on the mixer and keeps her focus on the bowl in front of her. I love that she hasn’t asked why I’m here. I know she’s wondering what I’m doing here, but I also know from previous interaction with her that she’s incredibly stubborn and more than likely won’t ask what I’m doing here, no matter how much she wants to know.
She turns off the mixer and pulls the mixing blades loose, then brings one to her mouth and licks it.
I gulp.
“Want one?” she says, holding one up for me to take. “It’s German chocolate.”
“How hospitable of you.”
“Shut up and lick it or I’m keeping it for myself,” she says teasingly. She smiles and walks to the cabinet, then fills a glass with water. “You want some water or do you want to continue pretending you can stomach that vegan shit?”
I laugh, then immediately push my cup toward her. “I was trying to be nice, but I can’t take another sip of whatever the hell this is. Yes, water.
She laughs and fills my cup with water, then takes a seat across from me. She picks up a brownie and takes a bite, holding eye contact with me. She doesn’t speak but I know she’s curious why I’m here. The fact that she still hasn’t asked, though, makes me admire her stubbornness.
I know I should offer up my reason for showing up out of the blue, but I’m a little stubborn myself and feel like dragging this thing out with her a little longer. I’m kind of enjoying it.
We silently watch each other until she’s almost finished with her brownie. The way she’s semismiling at me while she eats is making my pulse race and if I don’t look away from her, I’m afraid I’ll blurt out everything I want to say to her all at once.
In order to avoid that, I stand up and walk into the living room to take a look around. I can’t watch her eat for another second and I need to refocus my attention on why I’m here, because
There are several pictures hanging on her walls, so I walk closer to them to take a look. There aren’t any pictures of her that are more than a few years old, but the ones where she’s younger than she is now are jarring to look at. She really does look just like Hope.
It’s surreal, looking into those big brown eyes of the little girl in the picture. If it weren’t for the fact that she’s in several pictures with her mother, I’d be convinced she really was Hope.
But she can’t be Hope, because Hope’s mother passed away when she was just a little girl. Unless Karen isn’t Sky’s mom.
I hate that my mind is still going there. “Your mom seems really young,” I say, noticing the noticeable small age difference between them.
“She
“You don’t look like her. Do you look like your dad?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. I don’t remember what he looks like.”
She looks sad when she says it, but I’m curious why she doesn’t remember what he looks like.
“Is your dad dead?”
She sighs. I can tell she’s uncomfortable talking about it. “I don’t know. Haven’t seen him since I was three.” It’s clear she doesn’t feel like elaborating. I walk back to the kitchen and reclaim my seat.
“That’s all I get? No story?”
“Oh, there’s a story. I just don’t want to tell it.”
I can see I’m not getting any more information out of her right now, so I change the subject. “Your cookies were good. You shouldn’t downplay your baking abilities.”
She smiles, but her smile fades as soon as the phone on the counter between us sounds off, indicating a text. I look down at it just as she jumps up and rushes to the oven. She swings it open to eye the cake and I realize she thinks the sound came from the oven, rather than the phone.
I pick up the phone just as she shuts the oven and turns to face me. “You got a text.” I laugh. “Your cake is fine.”
She rolls her eyes and throws the oven mitt on the counter, then walks back to her seat. I’m curious about
