Fiona
SETTING THE LAST OF THE grocery bags down on the counter, I sank onto the stool and sighed. It was a cardio workout to get all those bags up the stairs. It had taken four trips. I’d rather run during the heat of the day than run up and down the stairs. Typically I wouldn’t have so many groceries, but my entire reason for going to the store was to but the ingredients to make cookies and brownies. Not that I knew how to make either of them. But last night I’d fallen asleep on the bed while Marty finished my shelves. And then he cleaned up the mess, covered me with a blanket, and turned off all the lights before locking up and leaving. It wasn’t a kindness I received often. A simple thank you seemed inadequate.
When I decided to make him cookies, I saw brownie mix and thought I may have a better chance at pulling that off. But he had mentioned cookies before brownies which could mean he preferred cookies.
After more debate than needed, I bought it all. Then realized I didn’t have baking sheets and had to buy those. If Chantel were here I would never hear the end of her laughter. I couldn’t cook anything. Much less bake sweets I wouldn’t allow myself to eat.
If I couldn’t pull off the cookie recipe I found online that was categorized as easy, then I had the brownie mix and I was sure anyone could make those. Of course, hitting a bakery and buying him cookies that were sure to be good had been an option, but he’d worked hard on my shelves. I felt like he deserved my effort to thank him.
After waking up this morning, I laid in bed staring at the sunlight through the blinds thinking about last night. I wasn’t one to talk about myself. But last night I had gone on and on with more information than Marty needed or wanted. What was even more embarrassing was I knew nothing more about him. I didn’t even know what he did for a living. If he was in college? Nothing. I hadn’t asked a thing.
The cookies were also an apology for being a chatterbox. I wasn’t that girl. The self-absorbed one who talked about herself for hours. Had I talked until I fell asleep? Covering my face with my hands, I groaned at the thought. I sure hope not. If I let myself think about it too much I would be head back to the store to buy everything I needed to bake him a cake. Which would result in nothing good. Literally.
I pulled out the cookie sheets and put them by the sink. I also put the eggs, butter, and milk in the fridge. Baking could take the rest of the day, and I only had two days left to get things put away before I left for Miami to do the sunblock billboard advertisement.
Hopefully, I’ll bake these cookies quickly and successfully. If not, I’d be running to Hannah’s Sweets, a bakery I noticed down the street. I only had time to attempt this once. If Shay were here, she’d help me or do it for me, and they’d be delicious. Her mother could bake anything. The cakes she made were not only decorated beautifully but tasted ridiculously good.
My mother could advise me on where I needed Botox, where to buy the newest most coveted designer handbag, and what colors looked good with my skin tone—none of which could help me at this moment. I’m not sure if she could even turn an oven on.
Picking up my phone, I called Shay. She was going to suffocate from lack of oxygen after laughing at me, but then she would help me with a few questions I had about the directions. Like what exactly was kneading.
The phone rang three times before Shay mumbled, “This better be good. I worked until three.”
“I need to bake cookies and I have some questions about the directions,” I said without hesitation. Shay would hang up on me fast if I gave too much pause.
When she didn’t say much at first, I thought she might have fallen back to sleep. Then I heard her yawn. “Is this my sister or has someone stolen her phone?”
“It’s me. I need to make cookies. Help me,” I pleaded.
“Cookies? Fiona, you don’t eat cookies. Did you join a church and find Jesus then decide to participate in their bake sale?”
“They’re . . . I need to make some . . . as a thank you . . . for a guy,” I said wincing as I said it.
Shay let out a laugh, then I heard a thump and she cursed into the phone. “Dammit! You made me laugh so hard I fell off the bed. I think I broke my cereal bowl.”
I waited for her to get herself composed. She wasn’t going to help until she got over the laughter then the questioning.
“Are you sure you want to make someone cookies as a thank you? I mean, you making cookies and feeding them to someone is more like a punishment.”
Annoyed, I scowled. “You don’t know. I may be an excellent baker. I’ve just never tried.”
“Fiona, you burn toast. In a toaster.”
“ONCE! That happened once Shay, and the toaster caught on fire. It wasn’t my fault.”
Shay laughed some more.
I waited because I needed her. If I didn’t need her so badly at the moment I’d hang up the phone.
“But the man some cookies from a bakery. He’ll thank you plenty.”
“He put together my shelves. It took time. Buying him something that takes no effort isn’t the same.”
“Then let him see you naked.”
Rolling my eyes at no one, I groaned into the phone. “Shay, seriously!”
“I am fucking serious. Is he good-looking?”
I thought about Marty’s smile. The way his arms flexed as he worked on the shelves. Those dimples. “Yes.”
“Then invite him over. Turn on some sexy music and give the man a lap dance. You won’t burn your new place down, and he’ll enjoy that. Your cookies, not so much. He could choke and die.”
“Tell me what it means to knead something and how to preheat the oven. Oh, and what is a pinch exactly? Like a teaspoon? Half a teaspoon?”
Shay sighed. “Fine. If you are bent on killing the man with your culinary skills, read the damn recipe to me, and I will translate.”
“Thankyouthankyouthankyou,” I said knowing she’d eventually give in.
“You owe me. I have to be back at work tonight, and I doubt I go back to sleep after this.”
“Why are you still working at the grocery store?”
“I’m not,” she replied, but added nothing else.
“Then where are you working that keeps you out so late?”
My question is met with silence on the other end of the phone line. And then she says, “Read me the recipe.”
Shay rarely hid anything. She was an open book. So my warning signals went off. “Shay, where are you working?”
“A new restaurant. Now stop with the questioning. I’m not making you explain Mr. Handyman to me.”
She had a point. But I didn’t know of any restaurant that stayed open that late. I’d find out later. After I baked my cookies.
“Fine. But this isn’t over.”
“Of course it’s not,” she replied with a bored tone.