For a second, he simply stared at me. "You bake?"
"Absolutely not."
His laughter filled the vehicle. "That might be the most honest thing you've said all evening."
A short time later, we were riding the elevator to my condo, carrying entirely unreasonable confidence in our ability to produce edible Christmas cookies.
The confidence lasted until the first tray came out of the oven. Kieran looked at the blackened hockey puck sitting on the baking sheet and then looked at me.
I looked at the cookie. Then I looked at him. Finally, I said, "I think it still has potential."
Kieran doubled over laughing. The sound echoed through the kitchen and made me grin despite the disaster in front of us.
"I would like the record to show that you set the timer."
"The timer was clearly defective."
"The timer is part of the oven."
"Then the oven was defective."
"Interesting defense."
"I stand by it."
By the time we attempted a second batch, flour had somehow ended up on my shirt, the counter, and one side of Kieran's face. I had no idea how that happened. Kieran claimed innocence so quickly that I immediately knew he was guilty.
"You did that on purpose."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"You have flour on your hand." He glanced down.
Unfortunately for him, he did indeed have flour on his hand. That only made me laugh harder.
The second batch turned out slightly better than the first. Not good enough to impress anyone, but good enough to eat while sitting on stools at the kitchen island with Christmas music playing softly in the background.
The conversation continued as naturally as it had in the car. Neither of us seemed interested in checking the time anymore.
One cookie disappeared. Then another. At some point, we stopped pretending the cookies were the reason we were still sitting at the island.
"You know, my mother would be horrified by these cookies."
I laughed. "Because they're burned?"
"Because they're ugly." His smile softened. "She wasn't much of a baker either, but every Christmas she insisted on making cookies."
"What kind?"
"Sugar cookies." His gaze drifted toward the windows. "The kind you're supposed to decorate. We were terrible at it."
For a moment, I could almost picture it. A tiny apartment. A little boy sitting at a table. A mother trying her best. Neither of them caring whether the cookies looked right. Just happy to be together.
"She sounds amazing."
Kieran's smile lingered. "She was."
The words carried affection. Grief too. Not fresh grief. The kind that had become part of him. The kind that never really left.
