Page 82 of Make Mine Sweet
“You carried Mama.” August’s standing in the middle of the living room, staring at me. “You must be really strong.”
Tess makes a soft sound, crossing her arms over her stomach. As if there’s a single part of her I wouldn’t worship if she let me.
“Your mama’s very light,” I tell him. “Where are your books?”
“Oh!” He darts into his bedroom and returns again seconds later, a stack in hand.
To my surprise, he crawls into my lap instead of Tess’s. He settles on my right thigh, leaning against my chest like he’s been here a dozen times before.
I’ve stood on top of mountain peaks. I’ve had week-long camping trips with A-list celebrities. I’ve pushed my body to its limits in pursuit of records and accolades. But this small child sitting in my lap feels like a personal best.
Tess watches us with an expression I can’t name. Whatever it is, it’s as significant as August’s sweet trust.
“This one’s funny,” August says, grabbing one from the stack he’d given Tess. He rests his head on my shoulder. “Will you read it?”
I read them all. I even do silly voices to make them both laugh. With every book, the warmth blooming in my heart grows until I’m steeped in it. This moment doesn’t belong to me, I’m only too aware. But I’m going to hold onto it for as long as I can.
TWENTY-EIGHT
TESS
The second dayIan fills in as August’s babysitter, I arrive home to them working in the kitchen, both wearing aprons. Sugar canisters and baking ingredients are spread out across the countertops, along with cookie sheets, measuring cups, and extra mixing spoons. Flour coats everything in a fine dust like ash after a volcanic eruption.
The Type A in me wants to start cleaning immediately. My softer side wants to just memorize this moment.
“What’s going on here?”
They turn around to face me. August has a streak of flour across his forehead and one cheek like he tried to follow a contouring video but got it all wrong. Ian’s equally covered in flour, the streaks in his beard making him look almost as wild as he did the day we first met. But he’s got a glimmer of mischief in his eyes he sure didn’t have then.
He points a finger at August. “Blame the kid.”
“Mama! We wanted to make cookies for you, so Ian found a recipe and we followed it exactly!” August’s bouncing on his heels, a cookie scoop raised in the air. “We’re bakers just like you!”
He runs to the table and plucks a cookie from a cooling rack. “Try it, Mama.”
I’m still stuck on Ian wearing my pink frilly apron with his red hair tied up in a bun. The two sights clash so much, I can’t tell if I want to laugh or take a picture and set it as my phone’s wallpaper. But August’s watching me sweetly, waiting for approval. Obviously, I’m going to eat the cookie. I take a bite and am pleasantly surprised to find they achieved classic chocolate-chip-cookie perfection.
“Isn’t it good?” he says.
“So yummy!” I high-five him and come away with a sticky hand. “You guys did a great job.”
“We shared a cookie to test our work,” Ian tells me. It’s a small thing, but the hint he hasn’t been letting August gorge himself on sweets is reassuring.
“I’m impressed.” I know how easy it is to forget steps and ingredients when you’ve got a small helper.
“My plan was to finish and clean up before you got home.” Ian must catch the way I’m cataloguing the mess, trying to contain my freak out. “But we had a small setback.”
“Our first batch of cookies is in the garbage can.” August gleefully points at the stainless steel container in the corner.
I step farther into the kitchen, one eyebrow raised. “The garbage can, huh?”
Ian shares a look with August. “I thought we were going to keep that between us.”
“Oops.” August giggles over his eager confession.
“What happened to the first try?” A dozen scenarios dance through my head. I’ve had a lot of experience with failed bakes.
“The butter was too soft?—”
