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When the blaring of the alarm comes to a sudden halt, I take stock of my current situation. Burned nuts on the frying pan, melted chocolate spilling over onto the stove, and dishes upon dishes piled high on every surface. Why did I think I could do this?
I sit at the counter and put my head in my hands. This is, as most would have predicted, an unmitigated disaster.
“Hey, Lilly. It’s OK,” Oliver says from beside me, stroking my back. “You can do this.”
“I would say that the evidence is pointing to the contrary.” I gesture to the mess in front of us.
“You just need a system,” he says as another timer goes off. For what, I have no idea. I look at him with doubt as he asks, “Where are your recipes?”
“I have them on my laptop.” I point to where it sits, covered in some sort of sticky substance. “I have a spreadsheet and everything to keep track of what I need to do.”
“OK, let me have a look,” he says as he wakes up my computer. On the home screen in front of him is a photo of the three of us—me, Oliver, and Amy—taken at my birthday bash last year. It was snapped before the vodka had taken hold of me and my decision-making abilities, and it is a favourite of mine. Oliver gives the picture a close look and then glances at me, the muscle in his cheek twitching.
“So what am I looking for?” he asks.
I pull the laptop over to me and, in a quick motion, open up the Excel spreadsheet to cover the photo in an attempt to put aside any memories of that night. “See? I made a spreadsheet with all the ingredients in this tab and times for baking, mixing, stirring in this one. It is all very organised,” I say, filled with pride, as another timer goes off. A fourth one?
Oliver smiles at me, also maybe a little proud at my attempt to have a system in place?
He gets up. “I know what you need to get through today,” he says. “Me.” I blink at him, unsure of where he is going with this.
“Let me be your sous chef,” he adds, grabbing an apron and going to wash his hands. “Between the two of us, we will get this in order.”
As I watch, he takes a tray of cookies out of the oven and, with expert hands, puts them on the cooling rack.
“Come on, Lilly. No time to waste. Turn that stand mixer off and figure out what that timer is for,” he says as another timer goes off. How many timers did I set?
For the next three hours, Oliver and I work side by side, following my well-designed spreadsheet—see, I knew it would work—and with some luck, things start to come together. As we work, we talk about everything and anything. Oliver tells me about how his boss is thinking of retiring soon and that he may be next in line for another promotion. He confides in me that although this is what he has been working so hard for, now that it is becoming a reality, he is unsure whether he wants to take it, based on how many hours they already expect him to work. This perspective from Oliver is surprising for me, given how he has always been single-mindedly ambitious. I never expected for him to get to his goal and not want to grab it with both hands. Maybe Oliver is changing?
In return, I tell him about the crazy cleaning lady at work who doesn’t think young women should be single and have careers and who leaves me “Jesus loves you” pamphlets on my desk every morning. As I tell him this, Oliver gives me an incredulous look and then bursts out laughing.
“These things could only happen to you, Lilly. What does she think you do at work, anyway?”
“I have no idea,” I reply. “She just knows I am one of only two women at the office and maybe assumes the worst.” Oliver goes to say something, perhaps in reference to the terrible male-to-female ratio at my workplace, when the oven timer goes off.
“Last one!” I say as I pull the final batch of mini muffins from the oven.
After taking two muffins off the cooling rack, I follow Oliver to the couch, sinking into it with a groan. I was standing for hours, and it feels amazing to get off my feet. As I turn and see Oliver sitting on the other end of the couch, I smile and pass him a muffin.
“For your troubles,” I say, my heart singing with gratitude for his help today.
Oliver bites into the warm muffin with vigour and sighs. “These really are the best muffins, Lilly. I know I just helped you bake them, but I don’t understand what makes them so amazing.”
I smile at him, and with the of air of someone filled with mischief, I whisper, “I added heroin to them when you weren’t looking.”
Oliver chokes on his mouthful as I let out a loud laugh. He throws a cushion at my head. “You brat!” he says, finishing his “drug-laced” confection.
“Thanks again for your help today. I would not have been able to get that done without you.”
“You would have figured it out,” he replies. “But I am glad I could help. And happy to keep my house from burning down,” he adds with a grin.
“And you say I’m a brat.” I throw a cushion back at him and lean my head against the couch with a sigh.
“Oh crap, I’m going to be late,” Oliver says, checking his watch and jumping up, wiping his hands on his running shorts. “I promised I would take Emma out for an early dinner. We need to talk about a few things, and it is almost 5:30. I have to grab a shower and get going,” he adds as he rushes towards the door, muttering something about homework and lists. They have a bizarre relationship.
“Five thirty dinner, what are you? Senior citizens?” I ask, feeling sad that he has to go.
“Emma has a virtual meeting with clients in Hong Kong later tonight, so this is the only chance we can see each other today,” he tells me, inadvertently making me feel small by making Emma seem important.
