Page 21 of Even Exchange

“Ow!” I huff a laugh, turning my attention to the little karate kid. “Can we keep the drop kicks to the dojo?”

“Nope,” Nash, my younger brother, says while performing what can’t possibly be any type of actual Taekwondo move. “Gotta practice.”

“I’m not trying to stifle your progress. Just don’t want my hip blown out in the process.”

He stands straight, puts a fist against his palm, and bows slightly, then runs away.

Six-year-olds are so bizarre.

Turning back to the counter, I examine the mess, then pull the trash can directly under the edge and swipe the wasted flour into it. After a thorough wipe down, I’ve finally got my workstation clean again, and I continue dumping ingredients into the bowl.

Flour.

Active dry yeast.

Salt.

Baking is my preferred method of stress relief, and Noah once mentioned he makes pizza dough from scratch that is unmatched, so, challenge accepted. My phone buzzes, and I glance at it on the counter.

Jonathan

I’m sorry.

My blood boils. Two stupid, meaningless words. He can’t be that sorry if he did it in the first place. I snatch up the phone and add him to my block list, along with his social media accounts. Shoving the phone in my pocket, I return to the stress relief session.

After thoroughly mixing in the cold water, I pretend the dough is Jonathan’s stupid fucking face as I knead it into the counter.

Cheating.Plop.Mother.Plop.Fucker.Plop.

“You alright there?” Dad says, leaning against the door frame.

“Fine,” I quip.

“You don’t look fine,” he presses, tone curious.

My chest squeezes, trying to contain the hurt. “I am.”

“You can talk to me.” Footsteps grow louder until he’s directly next to me. “That’s what dads are for.”

I slam the dough against the counter once more and side-eye him. He may travel a lot, but the reason I’m upset about it is I miss him when he’s gone. He’s the only one I’m able to talk to in this family. The only parent who actually cares.

“Jonathan and I broke up,” I blurt, eyes stinging as I fight tears that cheating motherfucker definitely does not deserve.

Dad remains quiet for a moment. “And how are we feeling about that?”

I blow out a breath.Plop.“Like I’m gonna need more dough.”

“Mm-hmm.” He taps his fingers against the counter. “Whose idea was it?”

I roll the sticky glob into a large ball. “Technically, I guess it was mine.”

Although it’s not like Jonathan made any effort to reconcile. He didn’t even chase after me when I fled the Dangling Pool Noodle Orange Chicken Catastrophe. And one bullshit “I’m sorry” text does not make an apology.

Dad leans against the counter, folding his arms. “And what did Jonathandofor you to come to that decision?”

My gaze connects with his. “You can’t shoot him.”

Dad holds his hands up. “I won’t.”

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