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She chews on her bottom lip, staring at me, before responding. “If you had the time, it would mean the world to me. Except, I don’t want to tie you down. You’re supposed to fly off and get your wings.”
About that. Camilla, like the good friend that she is, has always said that when I’m ready to branch out, to get a job in a marketing or PR firm to help companies with their branding, that she would be my biggest cheerleader. That she’d hate to lose me, but she’d understand because she wants me to do what I love.
But that thought, especially with the family drama and the recent change in relationship status, has me feeling queasy.
“I’d never leave you during the busiest time of year, Camilla.”
“If the right thing came along, you’d better.” She shakes her head. “You just got the marketing degree. Besides, you’re brilliant with branding work, and I can’t afford you—what you’re really worth.”
I hold up a hand. “Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it. As far as the cheesecake is concerned, consider it done. I’ll make a couple tonight and bring them in for a taste test tomorrow.”
“Shucks. You’re my ride or die, you know that?” Camilla goes on her tip toes to ruffle the hair on the top of my head. But she’s short and I’m tall, so she can’t quite reach. She ends up scrubbing the top of my ear.
“Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends.” I sing off-tune, but Camilla appreciates my low-key dance moves.
Later that night, I’m in my kitchen at home, still decorated in the cow-print décor of my youth, wishing grandpa were here already. It’s going to be a long seven weeks until he comes.
“You’re baking a cheesecake?” my mother asks when she comes in the kitchen for her nightly ritual of chamomile tea and saltine crackers.
“I bake!” I insist. “Sometimes.” True, I don’t usually need to. Camilla often fulfills my every baked good wish and more.
Mom tsks. “Don’t use up all my sugar. I need it for my fudge.” My mom makes Christmas fudge, and it’s delectable—when we can snag some. Most of it goes to the neighbors.
“I bought my own sugar, Mom.” I purchased all the ingredients I needed, and they weren’t cheap. But I know Camilla has her suppliers where she can get things in bulk for less, if these turn out to be a viable option for Shorty’s.
I turn on the food processor to crush more graham crackers for the second variety I’m making: a classic cherry version. When I’m done, I bring up the subject of the cheesecake again.
“I haven’t made one in a while, so I wish Grandpa were here to make sure I’m doing it right. Camilla is thinking of serving this at Christmastime along with the shortbread.”
“What do I smell?” my father asks as he enters the kitchen. He goes to the fridge to pull out the milk.
“She’s baking cheesecakes, Dean. For Camilla.”
My dad grunts as he moves to rummage in the cupboard. “I’ll be your taste tester. I haven’t had cheesecake since your grandpa was here last.”
“No, you won’t,” Mom says. “It’s too much sugar for this late at night.” Her tone is both tired and sharp. She takes a sip of hot tea, then shunts a breath and sticks her tongue out. “Too hot.”
Dad finds the small box of cinnamon candy and rips it open, inhaling the scent. “You enjoy making me miserable, I think,” he says to Mom. He makes a clicking sound with his mouth before popping a candy into it. His tone is wry—tongue in cheek—but I know what’s coming.
I try to direct the conversation to a better place. “I’m not going to slice the cheesecakes until tomorrow at the bakery, Dad. I need to show Camilla the presentation since she’ll have them in the display case whole.”
“So if you really want a slice of cheesecake, go to Shorty’s.” My mom says. “There. It’s decided. And also?” Her voice goes up an octave, and I brace myself for the storm that’s coming. “I do not enjoy making you miserable. It’s miserable making you miserable.”
Oh, boy.
He plunks down at the table and sets his glass down, hard. “Then why do it? Why can’t you leave me alone?”
“I wish I could. You’re the one who came in here while I was trying to unwind.”
He pours the milk, raising the bottle high in the air and making the stream thin. He lowers the bottle just before the milk overflows. Mom rolls her eyes at his showing off.
“Guys. I thought you’d worked out a schedule,” I say, mixing the graham cracker crumbs with the sugar and butter. If I can just get this last cheesecake done, I can hang out in my room while it bakes.
They’d decided one of them would take the earlier half hour to unwind in the kitchen with their signature nightly snack, and the other would go after. It was such a brilliant plan.
They both stare at me, as if they’d forgotten I was there.
My mother waves me away. “Did you know, Aria, that your father used to be so charming? Kind. Exciting and smart. Now? He likes to eat cinnamon candy, drink milk, and toss around insults.” She shakes her head. “You’ll understand when you’re married,” she says with a dull laugh. She takes a bite of cracker, so my dad jumps in with his own thoughts.
