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“Do you want to get better or not?”

“I like cooking,” I mumbled, shrugging a shoulder as I added the portioned sour cream and vanilla to the bowl.

He reached across me to pour the melted butter into the bowl I was whisking the wet ingredients in. “And do you like my cooking?”

“S’alright.”

“Just alright?”

I blew a strand of hair from my face. “Fine. Your cooking is good.”

“Brat.” He smirked, then turned and leaned on the counter, crossing his arms. “Then let me help you.”

I wasn’t sure what to make of his attitude adjustment. Maybe it was the kitchen. Being in his space where his word was law had to put him at ease—especially since there wasn’t a lot we could control lately. Or maybe it was making something for Zeke.

I still wasn’t quite ready to address the not-so-little phone moment we all shared.

“That’s good,” he said when I’d folded the wet ingredients into the dry ingredients, leaving a few lumps. “You don’t want to overdo it.”

I stepped aside while he cleared a space on the counter, sliding the pans closer.

“We’re gonna fill each one of these about two-thirds full and then pop them in the oven for eighteen minutes.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.” He passed me the bowl. “Any longer and they won’t be moist.”

“I don’t like dry cupcakes.”

“Neither does Zeke.”

I scooped the vanilla cake batter into the cupcake papers lining the pans as he instructed, and he put them into the oven.

While we waited for the cupcakes to cook, Cyn got to work on the vanilla buttercream frosting, talking me through his process. Once the mixture was smooth and fluffy, he worked it into a piping bag.

“Have you ever used one of these?” He held up a piping tip.

“No. Mom always did the frosting.” I reached up and placed my hand over my necklace, staring down at the remaining frosting in the bowl.

As much as I wanted to get better as a cook, baking reminded me of everything I had lost.

Before my parents died, I used to tell Mom I wanted to be a chef who created my own menu and owned a fancy restaurant like the people on television. Then, when I saw all the cute pastries at a bakery we visited on vacation, I decided I’d become a baker. Mom always smiled whenever I changed my mind, helping me map out every new dream that popped into my head on poster board.

She acted as if every dream were possible.

But after she died, I focused on surviving and taking care of Grandma, giving up my dreams.

“What are you thinking about?”

I dropped my hand and looked at him. “Huh?”

“You’re quiet.”

I shrugged.

He set the bag down. “What is it?”

“Just thinking about Mom.”