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“You do whatever you want.” Her mom squeezed her shoulder gently. “We’re only giving you a hard time.” Then she paused, blinked, took a step back, and it was like someone pulled a curtain down or pushed a cloud in front of the sun. It happened that way sometimes, a break in conversation, that vague look of confusion, a memory on the tip of her tongue, a memory slipping away completely. “Where did I put the spray bottle?”
“It’s right here, Mom.”
“Oh, of course,” she said, picking the bottle and rag up from the counter. “I think I’ll clean the cupcake display.”
Ian’s attention wandered back to his math homework.
“That one’s good,” Mira said quickly. “But the pie case could use some love.”
One feature at a time—eyebrows, eyes, cheeks, lips—her mom’s expression fell. “I already cleaned the cupcake display, didn’t I?”
It was still so hard, resisting the urge to make light of the slip-ups, to downplay the significance of every lost moment. But since all her soothing and placating ever did was make her mom more upset, she finally realized she’d only been trying to make herself feel better. And so she stopped. “You did. You’ve got therapy in a couple hours if you want to take a nap after you’re done with the pie case.”
With a brittle smile, her mom said, “That’s probably a good idea.”
Because she needed it, Mira grabbed a chocolate chip cookie from the case on the counter. It was still warm, and it soothed her, holding it in her hand. “Okay, I’m going to gotexthim.” Ian didn’t bother looking up from his notebook again, but his lips quirked. “Wish me luck.”
* * *
Shuttingthe door to her bedroom, she kicked off her shoes so hard one flipped into the air and landed on her bed, then she crawled into her window seat. After pushing the window open until the spring breeze cooled her overly warm cheeks and throat, she sat back against the wall and reread Cole’s text. Flexing and straightening her toes, gathering her sparkling nerves, she typed out,
Mira: Terrible service. On behalf of all inappropriate bakery owners everywhere, my sincerest apologies. I’m still waiting for your Yelp review for Glazed, btw.
Saying a silent prayer that something she thought might be moderately charming actually was, she pressed send. Then she waited, her heart rattling her ribs, her breath trapped in her lungs until it rushed out in a squeak when the texting dots popped up on her screen.
Cole: Writing it now actually. “Great tarts, spectacular cookies, and the owner’s lips taste like sugar.”
She kicked her feet onto her windowsill.
Mira: How are you?
Cole: I’m good. How are you?
Mira: Good.
Good?Shit, maybe Ian had been right. The temptation to start texting about flowers was nearly overwhelming.
Mira: About to take Mom to therapy.
Cole: How is Linda? And Ian? I’m bummed I never got a chance to meet them.
Mira: Mom’s good. Ian was just giving me hell about texting you back.
Cole: Like any self-respecting 14-year-old should. What kind of hell?
Mira: He said I shouldn’t call you because when I’m nervous, I “talk too much about random shit.”
Cole: I like this kid. Smart-asses are my people.
Mira snorted.
Cole: Were you nervous to talk to me?
Sinking her teeth into her bottom lip, she texted,
Mira: A little. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever hear from you again.
Cole: I’ve wanted to talk to you since the second I pulled away from your curb.
