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“No,” Cass said, nobly fighting a smirk. “They look good.”
“We tried to make Christmas cookies at our house,” Ada told Cass. “But our oven is broken so Daddy and Grandma drank wine instead.”
“Oh,” said Cass. “That’s...well, I’m sorry about your oven.”
I helped the girls with their aprons, and then tied mine on. They were all Christmas themed, in various shades of red and green that assaulted the eyeballs. Ada’s had bells on it, Em’s had holly leaves, and mine had Christmas trees. “I’m so glad you think so, because we happened to have another one, so I brought it for you to wear.”
The other apron—the one Ben had always worn—had cartoon reindeer on it, and a big red nose on the pocket.
“Seriously?” he asked, but took it and put it on, and I tried not to feel like I was somehow dragging him into my little family unit without asking. It was only an apron, after all. It wasn’t like we’d just fucked and now he was asleep on Ben’s pillow or anything.
“Okay,” I said. “Where’s that bowl? Because we need to crack some eggs into it, don’t we?”
“Can I crack the eggs and then put the shells outside?” Em asked, bouncing from foot to foot.
Cass gave me a look.
“There’s this old story,” I said. “I have no idea where it’s from. But witches use eggshells to sail out to sea and call up storms, so you’re supposed to put a hole in the bottom of the shells to stop them.”
“I like storms,” Em said, nodding seriously, “so I leave them out without holes.”
“I don’t like storms,” Ada said. “Or witches.”
“Well, luckily it’s just a made-up story,” I said.
“Are vampires real?” Em asked.
“No. Definitely not.”
“What about ghosts?”
“Weeeell,” I began.
“Also not,” Cass said, and rolled his eyes at me.
“Okay, we don’tknowthat.”
“A boy in our class says he saw a ghost,” Ada piped up. “But he’s stupid.”
“We don’t call other kids stupid,” I told her. “Even if they say silly things.”
Ada put her hands on her hips. “He ate aworm, Daddy.”
“He did it two times!” Em added, eyes wide.
“How’s that bowl coming along, Cass?” I asked.
Cass, laughing, produced a mixing bowl, and then we had the delight of supervising Em cracking eggs while Ada eagerly waited her turn to smoosh the butter and sugar together.
It took way longer than it should have to make the dough, but that was kids for you. And making the cookies for Cookies with Santa had never been about the cookies. It had always been about this part: a messy, slightly chaotic, and overwhelmingly fun activity that we laughed the whole way through. By the time the cookies were in the oven and the girls were playing with Noelle again, Cass was looking around his kitchen with a slightly bewildered expression. It looked as festive and snowy as the window displays on Main Street.
“It’ll vacuum right up,” I promised, dragging a finger through the flour on the counter.
“I don’t think I’ve ever actually baked cookies before,” he said.
“Are you regretting having broken your streak now?”
Cass laughed and went to the sink to get a cloth. “No. It was fun.” His expression softened. “You’re really good with them.”
