Page 15 of Best Friends for Never

It’s always like this when I see her. The last time she came to my apartment in LA, she baked for six hours straight, and when she left, I had a counter full of sweets. And when I flew her out to that set in Vancouver, she wandered off and worked in the craft services department for half a day before I found her. Got her name in the credits for that one. “And we kept the stove too,” she continues. “My recipes are fine-tuned to that old lug. I’m old enough to know not to mess with a good thing.”

Oh, but you did. The kitchen was perfect before.

“It was a good kitchen that served me well for many years, but I figured I’d give it a chance at a new life. We all need chances sometimes.”

I don’t miss the true meaning of her words. Her comments are directed at my leaving Emerald Grove for LA. In her own way, she is telling me to get over the change like she got over me leaving.

“Well, it looks great. Really. I like the color on the walls.”

“Thanks. We had a lot of fun picking that out.”

I let my eyes roll over the kitchen, looking at every detail and trying to discern what’s different and what’s stayed the same. The eclectic signs she once had littering the far wall are gone save for a handful of them, and they’re now artfully arranged instead of squeezed wherever they’d fit. The bird clock that used to chirp insufferably every hour is now gone—one change I am definitely not mad about—and has been replaced by a simpler, less noisy design.

“Do you want Cornflake Cookies too?” she asks out of nowhere, though I shouldn’t be surprised. She’d always had a one-track mind when I lived here, and that’s what she can bake next for me. I know she’s going all out now because she’s missed me. It’s how she shows her love, and I’ll gladly accept, especially since I never get home-baked goods like this back in LA.

I chuckle. “You’ve already made banana bread, Kitchen Sink Cookies, and zucchini bread.”

She peeks at me over her shoulder. “So ...?”

“So of course I want Cornflake Cookies too.”

She winks. “That’s my boy.”

“Do you want any help?” I ask, rising from my chair. I’m already pulling my sleeves up, ready to dive in.

“Not a chance, bub. You came all the way out here and even flew in early for little old me. Let me spoil my only grandbaby.”

I resume my spot with a grin, not even bothering to fight her about calling me a baby when I’m pushing thirty. How can I when she’s clearly so happy to have me here, even whistling that old, comforting tune she always has? I have no idea what it is, but she’s done it for as long as I can remember.

I watch her work, and she asks me about the movie I just wrapped filming, so I fill her in on the plot.

“Do you like it?” she asks after I’ve finished, her hands busy pouring the zucchini-bread batter into the loaf pan.

“If you’d have asked me that a few days ago, I’d have been on the fence about a good portion of it.”

“I sense abutin there ...”

“But after the director let me take a few liberties with the dialogue, I loved every minute.” Honestly, Bridget’s advice to pull from past heartache might have been a littletoogood. Because after that, it was like this whole new side of me was tapped into, and the words that spewed from me came a bit too easily. That, in turn, opened some old wounds I’d much rather leave closed.

Of course, running into said old wound earlier this evening didn’t help either.

“Proud of you, kid. You’re doing good work.”

“Thanks. I wish everyone in town felt that way. It should make Friday pretty interesting.”

She slides the zucchini bread into the oven, then crosses her skin-and-bones arms and rests against the counter. I wish she’d take a proper break and sit with me, but I know her too well. She’s not going for it.

“What do you mean?”

I drag my hand through my hair. “It’s nothing.”

She laughs. “Oh, sweet boy. I’ve known you from the moment you tumbled out of your mother’s vagina—”

“For her sake, I really hope that’s not true.”

“—and for as long as I can remember, when you’re uncomfortable or nervous or don’t want to upset someone, you run your hand through your hair like you just did. So spill it. Not like I’m going to tell anyone your business.”

I laugh, barely stopping myself from doing it again, then fold my arms over my chest, mirroring her post. “Fine. I ran into Mr. McMichaels at Jill’s.”

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