There was nothing in the world that couldn’t be solved by Lizzo. Literally nothing. That queen had a song for every occasion. So, cranking upAbout Damn Timeto maximum socially acceptable volume, she hauled out her baking supplies, borrowed one of Cat’s TikTok crowns, and got to work.
Blueberry muffins—check. Double batch of chocolate brownies—check, check.
Fuck that Sperm Donor asshole. While it wasn’t a competition, she was going to make sure the freezer was stocked with all of Mason’s favorite foods, so when he did come to visit, she wasn’t panic baking a bunch of shit. Just call her Efficient Mom.
Okay, so her superhero name needed some work, but she felt a deep satisfaction when she managed to get her shit together and hold it there for any length of time.
Organization was her forte. Lists, meal plans, color-coordinated spreadsheets and batch cooking like a mothafuckin’ boss bitch. But with her job, two kids, and a hockey schedule, she never really felt like she was on top of, well, anything.
Zucchini bread with walnuts—check. Two loaves of chocolate chip banana bread—check, check.
She was on fire—and if the kitchen got much hotter, the house would probably be, too. But she didn’t stop until she’d exhausted every egg, stick of butter, and most of her flour and sugar supplies too.
Two dozen snickerdoodles, and a dozen chocolate chip peanut butter cookies took up cooling racks on the counter, a pot of chicken and wild rice soup simmered on the stove, and the largest pan of Meemaw’s lasagna cooled on the breakfast bar.
The dishwasher was on its second cycle, and the kitchen didn’t look at all like she’d scrubbed around the faucet with a toothbrush only hours before. Instead, a thin film of flour coated just about every surface, and she couldn’t quite tell if the haze around the room was smoke coming from the oven, or a haze of baking supplies from Hurricane Avoidance.
Sweat trickled down her neck and face, into her eyes, and she swiped it away with the heel of her hand.
The front door burst open and the distinct sound of a bag falling onto tiles met her ears. “I’m back.” Cat wasn’t due back for another night, and her voice was…flat. Or something.
Her Mom-dar—radar for moms—went straight to high alert.
“I have snacks.” It was the only thing she could have said that could lure her daughter into the kitchen rather than skulking straight upstairs and hiding in her room.
Was it fair to bribe her kid with a sugar high in a bid to find out what was going on with her? Probably not.
Did she feel in the least bit guilty about it? Fuck no.
Cat made a beeline for the fridge, grabbing the gallon of chocolate milk from the door and closing it with a soft thud. She unscrewed the top and the milk was halfway to her lips when Clare pointed at the cupboard where the glasses lived.
Her kids were fucking animals.
“Don’t be gross. Use a glass.”
Cat flicked her glare between the bottle in her hand and Clare, once, twice, and on the third time she must have decided it wasn’t worth the battle and reached to get a glass with a sigh.
“Did you have Betty Crocker over for the afternoon, or what?”
Clare stepped back from the counter and wiped her hands on her apron. “Kinda looks that way, doesn’t it?” She shrugged. “I had free time today, so I thought I’d fill the freezer.”
“With all our favorite snacks?” Cat arched a brow and reached forward to wipe something off Clare’s face with her thumb.
“I had the ingredients…and the space in the freezer…”
Cat’s brow crept further up her forehead.
“I’d rather make stuff you guys will eat when you’re home. No point in making shit that’s gonna live in the freezer and make friends with the frost mites.” She smiled, but Cat remained sullen. “What can I get for you?” She grabbed a side plate and waved it around.
“I can attest the chocolate brownies are every bit as delicious as they look and smell. Perfectly fudgy in the middle with a fine crisp outer shell. And don’t ask me how I know, I’m not proud of my behavior.”
That made Catriona’s lips twitch ever so slightly. “Sold. I’ll take two.”
Clare picked up two edge pieces—because her daughter was a weirdo who preferred them to the center pieces—and as she passed the plate to Cat, she paused. “Wanna talk about it?”
Tears sprung into her daughter’s eyes and she shook her head. “Bribe first, then information.”
She wasn’t born yesterday. Cat knew exactly how her mom worked. And Clare could respect wanting to feed her feelings before talking it out. With a nod, she pulled the vanilla ice cream from the freezer and heaped a dollop on top of Cat’s brownies.
