caught me. Instead, I head back to the kitchen, trying not to strain to hear too much of what’s going on in the living room. It’s not like I don’t trust Tommy; I do. I trust him with my heart, with my whole life. I just want to know what they’re talking about.
I look around for something to occupy my hands and my mind. I could wash the dirty dishes CeCe left in the sink, but the running water would definitely drown out their voices. I could text Becky to see how things are going back at the office, but I know she’ll just say everything’s fine and not to worry. I wish people would realize that telling someone not to worry just makes them worry more. It’s like telling a woman to calm down. Never a good idea.
The sound of Monica’s laughter comes wafting in from the other room like a warm summer breeze. I don’t sound that pretty when I laugh. Stop it. Nothing good will come from comparing myself to her.
More laughter.
Tommy’s not that funny.
I stand and open the refrigerator. We’re running desperately low on everything now that shopping has become my responsibility. Maybe I’ll see if CeCe wants to go with me later. If she doesn’t, I’ll just point out the premade cookie dough that she was so offended I bought the last time I went alone. I clearly can’t be trusted.
The cookie dough. That’s something I can do. If I pop them in the oven now, they’ll be ready before Monica’s hour is up, and I can walk in there to offer her fresh, out-of-the-oven cookies. She doesn’t have to know they were premade.
Sometimes I surprise myself with how smart I am. I reach for the roll of cookie dough, and for a few minutes, I forget that I’m supposed to be trying to hear what they’re saying.
After setting the oven to 350 degrees like the package says, I try to open it. Easier said than done. Both sides are closed with a metal twist-tie thing, but there’s no twisting this sucker off. I give up quickly and open the junk drawer, where the scissors are supposed to be. Of course, they aren’t there.
Improvising, I grab a small knife and slice down the top of the plastic tube before peeling both sides down. The dough is conveniently cut in perfectly proportioned cookies, but I know homemade cookies never look perfect, so I call an audible and pinch a chunk of cookie dough from the rest of the roll.
Shit, the pan.
I open the oven and sure enough, the cookie sheet is sitting on the top rack. The pot holders are luckily where they’re supposed to be, so I grab them and drop the hot cookie sheet on top of the stove.
“Damn it,” I curse as it clangs loudly against the stove.
“Everything okay in there, babe?” Tommy calls out.
“Of course, everything’s just fine,” I answer back. Who knew baking could be so stressful? I have no idea how Jill and CeCe seem to find so much joy in making all this stuff from scratch.
My cooking confidence returns as I spray a thin layer of olive oil to grease the cookie sheet before going back to forming perfectly imperfect cookies. The instructions say to place them about two inches apart, but these are half the size of the ones they precut, so I figure an inch will do.
Once they are all on the cookie sheet, I pop them in the oven and set the timer on my phone for thirteen minutes. I throw the wrapper in the trash can so there’s no premade evidence and check the timer. I sigh, seeing less than thirty seconds have passed. Being patient has never been one of my strengths.
I glance back at the table, but I’ve got too much nervous energy to sit. I open the refrigerator again, this time checking out our beverage situation. Cookies go best with milk, but all we have is almond. We also have soda, and of course the latest batch of fancy Arnold Palmers that CeCe made, but I’m not sure how well basil and lemon go with chocolate chip cookies.
I know I’m acting crazy, but I can’t help it. I could bring them drinks now, before the cookies. That would be a nice and normal thing to do.
I open the kitchen cabinet where we keep the fancy glasses we never use and take two down. I consider reaching for a third, but that would