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“Your dad seems nice,” Anne says as we reach our street.
“Yeah,” I say, staring out the window.
My feelings about my father are all over the place right now, and I let them churn inside of me until we reach our house. Knowing I should forgive him is different from actually doing so.
I head upstairs as soon as I walk through the front door, changing into my comfiest set of pajamas. I debate flopping down on my bed with the new murder mystery book I downloaded last night, but decide to head back downstairs to make some tea first.
Emma’s standing at the counter, mixing one of her infamous cocktails. She studies the peach-patterned cotton I’m wearing. Hallie bought them for me as a joke, but they’re so soft, I wear them more than I planned to.
“You’re staying in tonight?”
“Uh-huh,” I say, starting the kettle and then climbing up on the kitchen counter to lean my head back against the upper cabinet.
“Jason will be disappointed.”
“He’ll get over it,” I tell the ceiling.
Emma hasn’t pushed me on Beck since CFOC, and her poster of him magically disappeared the day we got back. I’m guessing her mention of Jason is her way of asking if I’m still needing time. The answer is yes.
Cressida enters the kitchen in sweats and a face mask.
“Wait—you’re not going out either?” Emma exclaims.
I straighten my head to see Cressida shrug. “Not in the mood.”
She comes over to the cabinet next to me to grab the flour. I know what’s coming next, so I slide off the counter so she can grab the sugar from behind me, relocating to one of the stools.
Emma huffs as she measures out tequila. Then squeezes two lemons. Then adds some orange juice.
I turn my attention to Cressida as Emma returns the ingredients to the fridge. “What are you making?”
She eyes me apprehensively. “Sandra’s brownie recipe. She gave it to me at dinner.”
“Oh.”
“Did someone drink the tomato juice?” Emma inquires with her head inside the fridge.
“Please tell me you’re not putting tomato juice in that,” I reply, nodding to the cocktail shaker.
“What? It’s fruit. And healthy.” Emma heaves out a disappointed sigh that suggests she didn’t find the tomato juice.
I’m almost certain it’s on the top shelf, but I keep that to myself.
“Emma, no.” Cressida backs me up. “That’s disgusting.”
“Fine.” She sighs again, grabbing some ice from the freezer and shaking the mixer. She snags a glass and pours some out.
The kettle shuts off, so I grab a mug out of the cabinet.
“Here. Try some.” Emma holds a glass out to me.
“What? No.”
“It’s good.”
I doubt it, but I take the glass. It’s better than I expect, probably because I know it could have been so much worse. “Fine. It’s not awful.”
Anne enters the kitchen, also in her pajamas.
