Page 14 of Make My Heart Malt

Since my mom isn’t here to make them for me, I’ll have to bake them myself. How hard can it be? I have the recipe. All I need to do is follow the directions. Anyone can do that. Pulling a white apron over my head, I tie thestraps around my waist, making sure it’s snug. Glancing at my chest, I see an upside-down cartoon pig holding a butter knife and a pitchfork with the printed words “Don’t worry, I got this. I watched a YouTube video.” That’s right cartoon pig, I got this. I rummage through all the cupboards and drawers to find mixing bowls, measuring cups, and spoons. Once everything is set out in front of me, I go on a hunt for all my ingredients.

With the first batch baking in the oven, I stare at the timer, drumming my fingers on the counter as I count the minutes until they’re golden brown. I continuously peer through the small window in the door. Seconds before the timer dings, I yank open the door. The sugary sweet aroma of melted chocolate assaults my nostrils. It’s a grand slam on my first try. I pat myself on the back. With an oven mitt covered hand, I pull out the cookie sheet and my heart drops. What started as nine cookies has now morphed into one enormous, rectangular, flat-as-a-pancake cookie. Shit. The cookie sheet rattles as I toss it on the stove.

I try again with a new batch. When they’re finished, I let them cool for a minute. They look like cookies and even smell like cookies. This might be the batch. I grab one, break it in half, and toss a piece into my mouth. While I’m chewing, I glance at the recipe, but something tastes off. Almost artificial. Panic sets in as I peer at the counter with my ingredients. It’s then when the square, white container labeled bakingpowderinstead of bakingsodacatches my attention. Shit. Why is there baking soda and baking powder? And why do they do different things? Baking. The first word. The most important word. But no. After some quick research on my phone, I learn one requires an acid while the other doesn’t, and these chocolate chip cookies require baking soda, not baking powder. I guess you learn something new every day. Another batch in the garbage.

By the third batch, I’m on the brink of defeat. But I can’t quit. This is too important. I triple-check all my ingredients. Follow the recipe line by line. Now I wait and pray to the cookie gods that they turn out. While they still don’t resemble my mom’s chocolate chip cookies, they’re close. Which counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. I grab one and break it in half. A string of gooey chocolate stretches between the two halves. I toss a chunk into my mouth and chew. I moan. They may not be a grand slam but at least a triple, and that counts in my book. Once cool, I grab a plastic tray and place several cookies on it, securing them with plastic wrap. After I clean up my mess, I waste no time and head straight out the door, cookies in hand.

“Well, if it isn’t my second favorite baseball player.” Jake comes to a halt on the other side of the bar at Porter’s.

I take a seat across from him. “Why am I only your second?”

“Play for a better team, or at least learn how to catch a ball.”

I huff out a laugh. “Thanks for the pep talk. You really know how to boost someone’s morale.”

“If you came here for someone to stroke your ego, you came to the wrong place.” Jake reaches under the bar, then slaps three darts on the bar top. My gaze drops to the two red darts and one yellow dart with plastic tips. “This time, how about you take it easy on my dartboard, so I don’t have to replace all these tips?” His brow arches.

Since I was seventeen, I’ve been coming into Porter’s to throw darts. Luckily, Jake allowed me to hang out andspend my money on the dartboard. But not without a threat if I tried to order anything but a root beer, I’d have to learn how to throw a baseball with my toes. Jake’s a big guy. You don’t take his threats lightly. Since he gave me a reprieve from my house for a few hours, I wasn’t going to jeopardize the opportunity. Unfortunately, Jake’s dartboard took the brunt of my anger the entire summer leading into my senior year.

I reach into my pocket and grab my wallet. “Let me give you some money for those.”

“Don’t worry about it. If you didn’t come here for darts, can I get you a beer?”

“No, I’m good,” I wave my hand, “but is Dessa around?”

“No.”

Jake has always been a man of few words. “Alright. Can you give her these?” I slide the tray of cookies across the bar.

His gaze drops, then slowly meets mine with a raised eyebrow. Somehow, he can ask a million questions with only an arched brow.

I shrug. “I need Dessa to talk to me.”

“And you think cookies will do that?”

“It’s my mom’s recipe and her favorite.” At least, I pray the cookies are a big enough bribe. If not, my next option is dropping to my knees and begging.

He pokes at the extra crispy cookie through the plastic wrap. “Don’t quit baseball to become a baker.”

“Thanks for that vote of confidence. I’m hoping it’s the thought that counts.” I drum my fingers on the worn wood bar top. “Speaking of Dessa, I want to ask you about her.”

“Oh, hell no. I want nothing to do with that shit.” He rises to his full height and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Come on,” I plead. “You’re the only person I have here. Plus, you’ve known Dessa as long as I’ve been away.”

“I don’t get involved in her relationships, and as long as she keeps it out of my bar, I don’t care what she does.”

“So, she’s not seeing anyone?” I try to keep the desperation out of my tone but fail miserably.

“I don’t keep tabs on my employees.” Jake rests his palms on the bar and leans in. “Look, I'm well acquainted with your past and frankly, that’s more than I want to know.”

I lean against the backrest of the stool, twisting to rest my arm on the back. “She wouldn’t have freaked out as much as she did if she didn’t care. At least a little.”

“Fuck.” Jake stands to his full height and scrubs his hands down his face. “You know who’s really good at this shit? Rylee. You should ask Rylee.”

“I don’t know Rylee. You’re my friend, so I’m asking you as my friend, what do you think?”

He huffs out a long breath. “Talk to her. She likes to talk, so she’ll eventually talk to you.”

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