Having a plan, even one riddled with issues, makes me feel better. It’s not the plan so much that eases my anxiety, as it is Covey’s confidence. Someone meeting him for the first time might not see it, but it’s this side of him, the one that’s always scheming and dreaming, one hundred percent sure he’ll make it work, that I’ve always admired. I can hardly imagine the number of people who aspire to become professional dancers, but I suspect most of them don’t make it. Covey decided in his first week of ballet classes that he’d do it for the rest of his life.He was so convinced that he’d be successful that everyone around him had no choice but to believe as well.
“That sounds nice,” I say, and for the first time in this conversation, I think it will be.
CHAPTER 13
COVEY
Afew days ago, an evening of baking pies with Aidan seemed like a good idea. Great, even. I figured that baking six pies isn’t that much more work than making one. Not really. If I double up a couple of the recipes and pop them in the oven one right after the other, it should be simple.
Today, I would do severalslightly illegal things to avoid making these pies. I even stood in a grocery store for a full twenty minutes, staring at the slim pickings in the bakery aisle. They were sad—not sure what I expected the day before Thanksgiving—and my mother would know. Even if I used the trick of transferring them to my own packaging, she’d know. She always knows.
So, now I’m stocked up on pie-making supplies, ready to make six pies with Aidan. There are only two problems.
First, I’m beyond tired. Like stupid tired in a way that I can’t explain. Nutcracker rehearsals have been non-stop. It’snot just about getting all our parts right, but also about working closely with costuming and others to finalize every detail. Then there are the children. And as much as I love having them in the production—I’ll tell anyone who will listen how good it is for kids to have that opportunity—it sucks. A lot. Getting a whole bunch of over-sugared children to listen and rehearse is… well, I’m pretty sure it’s impossible. While the Hot Chocolate dance might be kid-free, the party scene is the opposite.
Second, and most important, Aidan’s not here.
He sent me a text three hours ago saying he’d be a few minutes late.A few minuteshave come and gone. No Aidan.
At this point, I’m not even sure he’s coming at all. Which is fine. This is my scheme, so I’m responsible for the extra work. Plus, if he’s not exaggerating, his kitchen skills aren’t going to be a lot of help anyway. I guess I was looking forward to having him here tonight for company.
At the very least, I’d expect a message from him letting me know he’s not coming. I sent him a few texts and even tried calling, but I got no response. I’m torn between worry and annoyance. I even checked the traffic report to see if there were any accidents, but nothing.
These pies aren’t going to make themselves, and last I checked, my kitchen is pie elf-free. I roll up my sleeves and wash my hands before spreading out the necessary equipment on the counter. Given the limited household items I own, I purchased several new items, mainly various utensils. My typical dinner food doesn’t require a whisk, but pie does.
The first pumpkin pie goes in the oven without much fuss. It’s not the most beautiful thing, but as long as it tastes okay, any flaws can be covered with whipped cream. The next two crusts are waiting for me to add the filling, but I’m holding off until the first one’s done. My appliances areperfectly sized for one person, but that means there’s not enough room for more than one pie at a time.
With those mostly out of the way, I turn my attention toward the other flavors. Aidan’s mom suggested an apple, but that’s boring. Besides, apples aren’t supposed to be mushy. In another typical moment for me, I went out on a ledge and picked a few different ones that I thought would be fun.
Fun is a relative term. Mainly, it’s relative to how close I am to having to do the work, which is why I settled on making a chocolate pecan pie, a fluffernutter pie, and one that boasts itself as better-than-sex pie. I’m reasonably sure it’s an exaggeration, but it sounds delicious.
Which is a shame because I’m eating none of these tomorrow. A bunch of heavy Thanksgiving food, plus pie, right before a production is a recipe for disaster. Besides, I feel better and perform better if I stick to eating less sugar.
Maybe one bite of the better-than-sex pie. That’s a fair compromise.
Thankfully, several of these pies use similar ingredients. Which means I can be efficient in the prep work. I’m partway through preparing the maple syrup sauce when the doorbell rings.I freeze, hands sticky and deep in a bowl.
“Come in,” I call. It better be Aidan; otherwise, I’ve opened my home to a stranger. The odds of being murdered by someone up here are small, but it’s not zero.
“Covey?”
“In the kitchen.” My brain can’t decide if I’m mad or relieved that he’s here.
“I’m so sorry.” He comes bustling in, coat and shoes still on, hair a mess. It takes one glance to know that something’s wrong. Anger forgotten, I quickly turn to the sink and wash my hands off enough to go to him. “Everything…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, his voice catching in the back of his throat.
“Hey, take some big breaths with me.” I exaggerate my breathing, taking in a long breath through my nose and out through my mouth. I grab his still-gloved hand and put it on my chest. It takes a few minutes, but Aidan finally takes a few good breaths. “Come. Sit.” I pull him toward the living room, steering him to take a seat on the couch.
A few seconds go by, neither of us saying anything.
“Are you okay?” It’s taken me all this time to get the nerve up to ask. It’s a stupid question, because anyone looking at him would know that he’s not. The range of possibilities running through my head is endless. At least he’s here and uninjured—anything else we can handle. I kick myself for not going out looking for him earlier when he didn’t answer.
“It’s not… I’m fine.” I want to push him to give me every single detail. Instead, I keep quiet, waiting for him to continue. The silence is pure torture. “One of my students went missing after school.”
“Oh my God.” I clasp a hand over my mouth. That wasn’t anywhere on the list of things I was worried about tonight. “What happened?” Burlington isn’t a small town, but it’s generally considered a safe place. I wouldn’t think twice about walking the streets at night.
“She’s okay. We found her a little bit ago. Turns out she didn’t want to go home and remembered that a neighborhood kid had a treehouse. She’s been begging for one, but her parents said no.” He stops himself, taking in a few more deep breaths. Something tells me it’s been hours since he was able to breathe normally. “She climbed up to play and fell asleep.”
“Jesus. I bet she has no idea how worried people were.”
