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“I’m ready for work, Miss Sophie. Show me what to do.”
For a few minutes, they rolled dough until the pan was full, then smashed them flat with the ancient glass we always used, the starburst in the glass imprinting on the cookie top. And then they sprinkled cinnamon-sugar on top, and Daisy slid them into the oven.
Sophie then set the egg timer for thirteen minutes and stepped off her little stool with a smile that could only be classified as mischievous.
“I need to go upstairs for a minute,” she said as she untied her apron. “Promise you’ll tell me when the alarm goes off.”
Holding my hand up in Boy Scout honor, I said, “Promise.”
And off she trotted.
I shook my head, wriggling against the manipulation and unsure what to do with myself. I wished it was as simple as Cole seemed to think. I wished I was a normal guy with a normal life who could do things like ask somebody like Daisy out. But I wasn’t. Problem was, convincing my brothers I wasn’t interested in her was becoming a full time job. They knew better, and as such, they might never let it go.
The only thing to do was pretend being friends was a viable solution.
“Can I get you a cup of coffee?” I asked.
“That would be nice,” she answered.
Thankful for something to do other than stare at her, I headed for the coffee pot and began assembly.
“Fifteen-year high school reunion, huh?” she said from behind me.
I glanced over my shoulder to see her smiling, her fingertips on the invitation laying on the island counter.
“Reunion.” I humphed. “Like we don’t all see each other every time we leave the house. What do we need to have a reunion for?” My heart squeezed on imagining it. Pictures of the homecoming king and queen, me and Mandy, all blown up for everybody to see. They always crowned the old king and queen. Except she was gone, and I was alone. “No thanks,” I tacked on to the end, scooping grounds into the filter.
She chuckled. “Gosh, you were a star back then. I went to every football game, watched you play all senior year.”
“Every game?”
“I was a band kid, so yup.”
I caught myself smiling. “Forgot about that.”
“It’s all right, Keaton,” she teased. “You don’t have to pretend like you knew who I was.”
“Of course I knew who you were. Everybody knew you. How else would I have known you played the …” I reached for a second, finally landing on, “trumpet.”
“French horn,” she said as I filled up the pot.
“Damn. I knew it was brass.” Now that she’d said it, I could even recall watching her at a school assembly with her hand in the bell and her lips behind the mouthpiece. Every hot-blooded straight guy I knew had noted her.
“Imagine that. Keaton Meyer knew my name. Good thing nobody told me back then. I might have died on the spot.”
“Wouldn’t want that.”
“I mean, I would have died happy, if it’s any consolation.”
“That so?” A smile brushed my lips, unbidden. When I started the pot, I turned and walked back to her, leaning against the other side of the island.
She rolled her eyes, her cheeks flushed. “Don’t act like you didn’t know everybody had a crush on you.”
I folded my arms. “Including you?”
She pinned me with an amused, come on sort of look. “Remember when you were on the cover of the Lindenbach Herald?”
My cheeks warmed a little, and I prayed they weren’t pink. “Sure.”
“I didn’t know a single girl who didn’t have that picture of you stashed somewhere in her bedroom.”
With a laugh, I turned for the cabinets to retrieve a couple of cups, knowing my cheeks were pink. The photo was one of me on the field after the homecoming game, helmet in my hand and a smile on my face the size of the state. I was a sweaty mess, my hair wet and unruly, my gaze somewhere off toward the stands, the picture of triumph.
I didn’t know that boy, didn’t remember him. I wondered with no small amount of longing whether or not he lived somewhere inside of me still or if he was gone forever. The call for him into the cavern of my chest echoed in the empty space.
“Fifteen years,” she said in wonderment from behind me. “I almost can’t believe it.”
“No amount of time will be enough to convince me to go to a reunion. I’d rather eat a bucket of rusty nails.”
“I’m sure Janelle Jones would hold you to that if she thought it’d convince you to come to her event.”
“I don’t get it,” I said, turning again to lean back against the counter where the coffee was nearly finished brewing. “Janelle Jones runs the choir at church and sees half our class there every Sunday. You can’t take three steps in this town without bumping into somebody you went to school with. I’m not interested in going to a party to relive the glory days.”
