With Evee in my arms, I watch her mom work and learn more about her—two of my new favorite pastimes. I opted to hold Evee as Rumi took the prepping process for our cookies—something I would have probably done anyway, even if she did have a high chair to sit in right now.
After I warmed up the dinner Rumi brought over, I realized that I didn’t have somewhere for Evee to sit. We ended up having her sit on the counter between us as she ate the little pieces of meat and french fries that Rumi cut up for her—explaining that she does something called baby-led weaning for Evee, having started when she was seven months old.
I didn’t realize how much stuff you need for a baby, but I’m making mental notes as the night goes on—having added a high chair, a play mat with extra toys she can keep here, extra diapers and wipes as well as a place Rumi can change Evee without having to do it on my small bathroom counter, and somethingcalled a pack-and-play that I looked up when I Googled where babies sleep when they’re not at home.
I already feel like I’ve learned so much, not only about how to properly care for a baby or vegan substitutes for baking, but about Rumi too.
“What about milk?” I ask, wanting to learn as much as I can about Rumi’s diet. I’m standing next to her, leaning back on my kitchen counter as she pours some vanilla extract into the bowl of batter.
“Cookie recipes don’t usually need milk, but for other recipes you can substitute soy, coconut, oat, or any nut milk,” she answers. “I’ve perfected a recipe that doesn’t need any egg substitutes either.” She rips open the bag of chocolate chips—we checked the ingredients when I pulled them out, and I luckily got a brand that was vegan.
“You need a measuring cup for those?” I ask, grabbing the one next to me to hand to her.
“Nope,” she says, popping the “p” sound and pouring the whole bag in the batter.
Rumi begins folding the chocolate chips into the batter—or should I say, the batter into the chocolate chips.
“It’s probably too late to say this, but I’m not the biggest chocolate fan.”
She freezes, turning to look up at me as if I just told her I killed the person who invented chocolate rather than tell her I didn’t like it. “You’re joking.” Looking down at the bowl, I start to worry that she’s going to start apologizing and pick out the chocolate chips by hand.
I’ve learned a lot about my new friend tonight, and one of those things is she doesn’t just apologize because she got used to doing it when she didn’t have to.
Someonetaught her to.
Whether that’s her asshole of a dad who her asshole mom left her with or her asshole of an ex-boyfriend who made her think the way she ate was stupid.
Someone taught her that everything is her fault.
Rumi looks back up at me. The light from the setting sun through my windows makes flecks of gold and amber dance in her irises, like fire flickering beneath the surface of a deep lake, the soft glow casting warm shadows around the edges.
It’s like the sky itself has settled inside her gaze.
“I was going to apologize,” she starts, “but I can’t.”
Good,I think to myself.
“Who doesn’t like chocolate?” she mocks, her tone playful.
“Then it’s probably also not a good time to tell you that I actually don’t really like any sweets.” I can’t help but push her just a little bit more. It’s fun to tease her—to see her cheeks blush, her teeth bite down on her bottom lip, her full lips pout.
I’ve seen a few different sides of Rumi in the short time I’ve known her, still keeping to myself about the way our paths crossed last year. I’ve seen her shy and timid, defiant and stubborn, but I think I like this playful side of her best.
Rumi throws her hands up in the air, and it makes Evee do the same in my arms, giggling as she continues to watch her mom with me. “What happened to the whole ‘I take my cookies very seriously’ when you broke into my house?”
“I did not break in,” I argue, fighting to keep the smile off my face.
She ignores me. “And now you’re telling me I’m just using your kitchen for you towatchme make cookies you’re not even going to eat?”
I shrug my shoulders. “I’ll have a bite of one.”
She lets out a groan. “You know what?” I raise a brow only for her to poke my chest with her pointer finger. “You can finish these cookies while I hold her.” She holds her arms out for Evee.“You probably need a break anyway. I know she can get heavy after a while.”
I turn away from her, pulling Evee closer to me. “I’m going to pretend you did not just imply that I am not strong enough to hold this 25-pound baby for half an hour.” Since my house isn’t baby proofed—another thing I had to stop Rumi from apologizing for, as if it’sherfault thatmyhouse doesn’t have all the necessary things for a one-year-old—holding Evee is the least I can do, so we can keep an eye on her.
But by the looks of it, we might have just broken Rumi’s habit of perpetually apologizing.
Rumi rolls her eyes at me. “Relax, firefighter. No one is insulting your strength. I’m sure you’re very proud of your big ol’ muscles.” She’s making fun of me, but I see the way her eyes roam to my arms, my long-sleeves rolled up exposing my forearms. I wish I had opted for a short-sleeved shirt today, loving the hungry way her eyes look at me now and when I first opened the front door tonight.
