I’ve changed clothes at least four times, which, given the scarcity of non-work clothes in my closet, is saying something. Matthias insisted on picking me up. It’s a lovely gesture, but I’m concerned about my parents. They’re not known for their social skills, and the last thing I need is forthem to scare Matthias off. While I’m sure he can hold his own, my parents live in their own little bubble. Dealing with them is a whole different kind of battle. One I don’t want him to wage. Not yet, at least. Obviously, if we continue, they’ll have to meet him. Eventually. Maybe five or six years from now? When we’re celebrating our wedding anniversary or something.
All of that explains why I’m sitting by the front door, staring out the window, waiting for him to pull up like I’m some sort of sad puppy. If I can get to him before he even gets the car in park, then my parents will be none the wiser.
“Frank, what are you doing?”Shit. I kinda hoped they wouldn’t notice. Last I checked, no one was around.
“Waiting on my ride.” Keep it vague. A typical night out and nothing more. Move along. Nothing to see here.
“Can you come help me with something in the kitchen until they get here?”
I sigh. So much for my foolproof plans.
“What do you need?” I get up and walk toward the kitchen, unsure of what I’m going to find. It could be anything from getting a container down from a top cabinet to dicing onions.
“Could you decorate these cookies for me so I can get them in the oven?” These sugar cookies are my mom’s specialty. At least as much as you can call a recipe from a mass-market cookbook a specialty. She takes them to every gathering. She claims that since she skips the frosting and puts the sprinkles on the cutouts before they bake, they’re healthier. I’m ashamed to admit how long it took before I stopped believing that one.
“My friend is going to be here in a few minutes.” I look at the big tray filled with leaf shapes. It’s for the fall festival bake sale the church is having this weekend. They do itevery year to fund the Christmas gifts they donate to various charities around Cardinal Falls. My mom usually makes tons of fall shapes—nothing holiday-specific to avoid any complaints. None of which I have time to decorate before we head out. I’m not sure how I missed her getting all this set up.
Scratch that. I know exactly how I missed it. My mind has one thought and one thought only today. Matthias.
“See how much you can get done before he gets here.”
None is the answer I want to give. Instead, I drop my coat on the chair in the corner and roll up my sleeves.
“Tsk. You’ll get dirty like that. Put on an apron.” I groan as she glares at me with a look she’s perfected over time. One that should be illegal due to its effectiveness. She’s right. It took me a long time to pick out this outfit. It’s the perfect blend of trying hard and not trying at all. There’s every chance that this black sweater is going to be covered in flour and orange sprinkles before I get out the door. Not the sophisticated look I’m going for.
I carefully pull it over my head and deposit it with my coat. At least if I get messy, it’s only the undershirt. That will hide any stupid mistakes. I don’t know much about how Matthias spends his free time, but in my mind, it pretty much always includes a suit. That’s what I imagine him in tonight—though, I hope he doesn’t expect the same from me.
My mom holds out an apron for me. Does every apron we own have to look like it walked off the set of a fifties TV sitcom? I know they make nicer ones. It’s not a manly bullshit thing; I’m not into the frilly flower pattern.
Focus. If I can decorate this tray of cookies quickly, then I can have my sweater back on and be waiting at the door in under five minutes. It’ll be tight, but I can doit.
Apron tied, I get to work with the sprinkles. My mom has every color of sugar possible and a range of different fall cookie cutters, including leaves and acorns. It’s easy enough to lose myself in the decoration process. As a kid, my job in the kitchen was always to decorate the cookies. I hate baking in general, but the decorating part is where I shine. I always get lots of praise for the way the cookies look at events, so I’m not about to slack off now. Even if I’m in a hurry.
“I’m home,” my dad calls, rounding the corner from the garage into the house.
“We’re in the kitchen,” my mom yells back.
“I found one of Frank’s friends hanging around the driveway.”
I freeze, sprinkle shaker in hand.No. No way.
“Great, we could use a little more help.”
Fuck. Can I get a break, please?
“Hi, I’m Matthias Weber.” Matthias rounds the corner and greets my mom.
“I’m Frank’s mom, Christina. It’s so nice to meet you.”
“You’ve got a lovely home, Mrs. Rosso.”
I try my best to hide behind the counter, but it’s too late. I know Matthias has seen me. Time for damage control.
“Please, no need to be so formal. Christina is fine, and you’ve met my husband, Leo.”
“We have to go, Mom.” This is literally my nightmare. I’m standing in my kitchen, wearing a ridiculous apron instead of the outfit I spent hours selecting, chatting with Matthias and my parents.
Wait, even my worst dreams weren’t this bad. I swear, I can’t stop embarrassing myself in front of this man.
