MY DAD WANTS ME TO BE HAPPY, so he buys me a brand-new KitchenAid Artisan Stand Mixer. It’s beautiful—metallic silver, with all sorts of attachments, like a gourmet pasta press and an ice cream maker. He gives it to me the day following the disaster that was Movie Night, and I’ve got it out of the box and running in a matter of minutes. I’m thankful, so thankful, but even as I’m measuring flour and spooning yeast, I’m recalling the expression my dad wore as I accepted the mixer: reminiscent and proud, a little regretful.
I read his gift for all the things it says: I’m sorry I’m not around more, and For the love of God behave, and I’m trying to be a cool dad again.
I make homemade pizza crust, and even though savory foods aren’t really my thing, I add some marinara and mozzarella and zesty pepperoni.
“I’ll set the table,” Dad says fifteen minutes later, as I’m pulling dinner out of the oven.
Meredith fills glasses with water and ice and I divide the pizza into slices, pondering this shift in the paradigm; other than holidays, the three of us haven’t sat down to dinner together in months.
We’re quiet at first, a lot of chewing and swallowing because we’re tragically out of practice when it comes to this sort of togetherness, until my dad asks, “How was your day, Jill?”
“With the exception of my new mixer, pretty eh. I worked and caught up on homework.”
“You should’ve come shopping with Marcy and me,” Meredith says. “We got a swing for the baby, battery powered, pink-and-brown plaid. Darling.”
I nod blandly, and Dad does, too. He and I are in agreement about the overwhelming lameness of baby stuff.
“Maybe next time,” Meredith adds.
Dad frowns and I know what he’s thinking: How many more shopping trips will need to be made before the baby’s stocked up? He refocuses on me. “How’s the new semester going?”
“Okay,” I say, looking down at my plate. He’s trying, but his questions make me jittery. The last few weeks have been chaotic—I’ve barely had a minute to breathe—and the next few months won’t be much better, what with the baby coming. And then there’s my yo-yo relationship with Max. I wonder, for the billionth time, what he’s doing—how he’s doing. I think of the often-quoted definition of insanity: carrying out the same behavior over and over while expecting different results.
Is that me?
Have I completely lost it where Max Holden is concerned?
I pick at my crust, feeling like a can of soda, all shaken up. I wish I could unload the stress that’s peaked in mountains around me, but Meredith’s never really been a confidante, and Dad’ll lose his shit if he finds out my funk stems, in large part, from my non-romance with the bad-influence neighbor kid.
I set my half-eaten pizza slice on my plate. “I think I’m going to head to my room,” I say, pushing my chair back.
Meredith looks at me, worried. “Not feeling well?”
“I’m fine. Just not in the mood for pizza after all. Plus, I’ve got a lot to do before school tomorrow.”
She smiles sympathetically. “We’ll save you a few slices in case you get hungry later.”
Dad clears his throat, and I turn to face him. “Jill, I know the last several months have been a challenge. I know I came down hard, grounding you the way I did, and I know you’re still disappointed about your International Culinary Institute money, but I think you’ve handled yourself well lately.”
Only because I’ve been faking it, hiding my worries, not to mention my time with Max. I nod, unsure of where he’s headed.
He continues, “Maybe we don’t say it enough, but Meredith and I appreciate your help. We’re proud of you.”
I sense that he wants me to reply with something eloquent, something forthcoming, a response to merit the ceasefire he’s initiating, but tonight I’ve got nothing more than, “Thanks again for the mixer.”
* * *
Much later, after Dad and Meredith have gone to bed, I sneak outside to meet Max for a walk through the neighborhood. The outing was his idea, but once we get moving, he falls quiet, going through the motions without really engaging.
“What’s up with you?” I ask, after our first trip around the block.
He shrugs, melancholy, and adjusts the beanie he’s wearing.
Rather than poke at him by asking about how Becky’s surprise appearance at Movie Night played out, I tell him about my new mixer: its make and model, its various attachments, its quiet hum. I tell him about how perfectly the dough hook mixed the beginnings of my pizza crust, and how beautiful it looks on the kitchen counter. “It’s, like, the Rolls-Royce of small appliances,” I say.
He glances at me. “What is?”
“Uh, my new mixer?”
“Oh.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes at his inattentiveness. Realizing it’s up to me to keep the conversation flowing, I ask, “What’d you do today?”
“Went out.”
My skin prickles, and I immediately want to ask, With who?
“Leo and I went for a long run,” he supplies unprompted.
I’m not proud of the relief I feel at knowing he wasn’t with Becky. I don’t want to be jealous of something I don’t understand. This—our friendship—should be enough.
“How was it?”
“Fine. Boring … I had other stuff on my mind.” He nudges me with his elbow. “But tell me more about your mixer. What’re you gonna bake next?”
I consider. “Maybe a cake? Something delicious and supersweet, like coconut cloud cake, or hummingbird cake. Yeah, hummingbird cake, I think. It’s full of crushed pineapple and mashed banana and pecans and other delectable things. Have you ever had it?”
He gives me a blank look. “Had what?”
“Hummingbird cake! God, Max, are you even listening?”
“Yeah, I’m listening.” He drags a hand over his face. The night’s so cold, his breath creates a cloud of condensation. “Sorry, Jill. I’m just tired.”
We head for home.