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Interesting.
As if realizing we’re having an actual conversation where she isn’t as cold as ice, she leans back a few inches and murmurs, “I should probably get going.”
“If you want, I can pick up the ingredients, and we can make some real cookie dough tonight.” The invitation slips out of me before I can help myself. But I don’t rescind it. Because I kind of like her prickly side. Part of me wonders if others get to see it as often as I do. Not that I’m special or anything.
Besides, I think she needs the company as much as I do.
“I shouldn’t,” she decides.
“Why not?”
“I dunno? You’ve had a long day at work. I’ve had a long day at school. I need to study. You need to…”––she waves her hand at the grocery cart again––“put your groceries away. It seems like more hassle than it’s worth. It’s only cookie dough.”
“Onlycookie dough?” I step closer. “You see, when you say things like that, it makes me think you need to try some other recipes. Just sayin’.”
“I’ll see you around, Mack.”
I nod and step away from her. “Next time, then. See you around, Kate.”
She smiles stiffly but walks away, clutching the tube of cookie dough in her dainty little hands like it’s a lifeline.
My girls used to love cookie dough. Every Sunday, we’d visit Grandma and Grandpa Taylor’s house. They’d sit on the granite countertop, arguing over whose turn it was to scoop the flour, crack the eggs, and add the chocolate chips. The familiar dull ache in my chest heightens, and I pull my phone out, typing Miley a message. We’ve been chatting a little more over the last few months. Nothing crazy. But the girl responds every so often and always makes sure to at least like my messages, even if she doesn’t know what else to say. And damn me if I didn’t admit I live for those little thumbs-up notifications.
Me
Hey, Miley. I was talking with a friend about cookie dough, and it made me think of you. Do you remember when you and Hazel would help Grandma make cookies? Pretty sure I still have a picture of you eating from one of her spoons with the baking tray in front of you.
I hit send and pull up Miley’s big sister’s text thread. Countless blue messages line the right side of my iPhone, while the left side is pathetically blank. She’s never responded to me. Not once. She’s always been the stubborn one. The one who refused to cry when she was hurt, choosing to run into her room and slam the door instead of letting her parents comfort her. Part of me thinks it’s what she’s still doing. Keeping me at arm’s length while she licks the wounds left from my divorce.
I’m so sorry, Hazel.
Refusing to let it bring me down, I’m trying to think of something clever to say to Hazel when Miley responds, distracting me.
Miley
Photo or it didn’t happen, old man. Let’s see it.
Old man.
I bite back my laugh and shake my head. The girl’s a smartass, but I love her for it. Pulling up the photos app, I search through the pictures on my phone and find the image I’d been thinking about. Miley’s in nothing but her diaper. She’s barely two and is sitting on the counter, her face covered with cookie dough as my mom squishes her face against hers. They’re both grinning from ear to ear while Hazel’s posing in a princess dress with her hands held up high in the air, holding a dough-covered spatula like it’s a magic wand as she stands on the counter with bare feet. They both look so little. So precious.
I send the photo to Miley and pull up the unanswered text thread between Hazel and me again, unsure what to say.
Me
Miss you, Haze!
I delete the message and try again.
Me
Took a short walk down memory lane tonight. Hope you’re doing well.
Delete.
Me
Crazy to think you used to be this little.
