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Once mixed, she scoops it out onto cookie sheets and slides the cookies in the oven to bake.
“Mommy, can I lick the bowl?” Olive begs, dancing her way into the kitchen in a purple tutu and high-top tennis shoes that light up with every step. She was probably listening from the living room, ready to strike when the time was right.
“How about the spoon?” Holly negotiates as she scoops up a little bit of the leftover dough. She’s strict but reasonable. Except I kinda wanted that dough for myself.
“You can get salmonella from that,” I warn.
Olive looks at the spoon in confusion and then shrugs. “I like salmon.”
“Not salmon, sal-mon-nell-a. It’s a bacteria.”
“We need bacteria to make the things we eat divest in our tummies,” she gravely informs me as she licks the other side of the spoon. “Mrs. Thompson said so.”
“Di-gest,” I correct. “And yes, but those are good bacteria. Raw eggs and flour can have bad bacteria.”
Holly tilts her head, somehow managing to roll her eyes while staring right at me. “Has anyone really died from eating raw cookie dough?”
“Probably somewhere, sometime.” I eye the bowl warily, but I can’t lie to this kid. “I don’t have exact statistics.” The very idea of life and death statistics makes the gash in my heart yawn wide open, bleeding fresh and hot again. “Give me that.” I grab the bowl and slide my fingers through the dough, gathering a bit for myself.
“Oh, no! You’re gonna get salmon ‘acteria, Aunt Zo-Zo,” Olive shouts, but she immediately bursts out in laughter at her own silliness.
I try to smile, but my lips just won’t, not even for Olive. Not now. Tears burn, and I turn away so Olive won’t see, grabbing a kitchen towel to swipe at my eyes.
“Hey, honey, go wash up, okay?” Holly tells her daughter.
“Okay, Momma.”
Olive runs to the bathroom, more energy in her little pinkie toe than I have in my entire body right now as I sag. Putting on a brave face for Olive for just those few moments exhausted me, reminding me of the innocence I once had.
But that was so long ago.
Not just before Blake, but before my grandparents, my parents. Before I had any idea what loss or betrayal felt like, before I knew fate was cruel and the world harsh.
“I don’t know, Zo. I feel like I might’ve infected you with some of my bitterness.” Holly returns to our conversation as though the interruption from Olive never happened, a mom skill I don’t have so it takes me a second longer to mentally turn back around to where we were with Blake using me. “Don’t get me wrong, there aren’t many good ones out there, and Lord knows, I haven’t found one, but just because I haven’t, doesn’t mean you didn’t. What if—”
My mouth opens to argue and she shoves M&Ms into it to shush me. Effective tactic.
“As I was saying, what if he came to see you because of the case, because that makes sense, and then was knocked out by how awesome you are?” Even with a mouthful, I smile wryly at her absurdity. She keeps adding ridiculousness to her version of events. “And since you’re not exactly the friendly sort,” she says, giving me a pointed glare, “Blake used the only ‘in’ he had to spend time with you. Falling for you, and through the magic of his dick, getting you to fall for him.”
I wish, with every fiber of my being, that were true. But . . .
“This isn’t some movie where the hot guy falls for the basement weirdo, Hols.”
“Don’t call yourself that!” she chastises.
I shrug, licking a bit of chocolate off the back of one of my teeth. “It’s true. And we both know it. I own it, mostly proudly. But who I am, what I do, the things I’ve been through, don’t exactly lend toward a happily ever after.”
I’ve lived with that truth for a long time, had it hidden deep inside behind locked doors and solid walls, but those have all been shattered, and after Blake, with my defenses all but gone, it hurts to spell it out so bluntly.
Holly’s eyes go red and glittery, but she growls, “I’m going to kill him.” Even she knows I’m right, no matter how much she wishes it weren’t true. “If anyone can figure out a way to do it without getting caught, it’s us.” She wiggles her eyebrows at me enticingly.
“I don’t want to kill him, Holly. I want to pretend it never happened so I don’t feel stupid, sad, and mad all at the same time.”
“You are not stupid. You’re kind and sweet. Sad and mad, I can help with. You need pizza rolls, cookies, and wine. Go claim the prime spot on the couch.”
I wish I had the strength to argue, but shitty food and a shittier movie sounds like the perfect way to wallow in my misery, so I don’t bother.
