Page 28 of The Pumpkin Spice Proposal
“You’re taking out your emotional frustrations on innocent baking ingredients. Grandma’s movies say that’s called displacement.”
“Where did you?—”
“June’s Facebook group discussed it. They think you have major unresolved romantic tension.”
Mario, who’d been meticulously arranging chocolate chips on a cookie with the concentration of someone defusing a bomb, made a sound that might have been a laugh or possibly him choking. He’d come over in the clothes he always seemed perfectly comfortable in: faded jeans, a faded navy Henley with the top button undone, and a damp charcoal work jacket slung over one shoulder. Even damp, he looked like he belonged in this house—and maybe in my head—far more than any manual ever entitled him to.
“June’s Facebook group needs to mind their own business,” I muttered, attacking the dough with renewed vigor.
“That’s what Mario said! Except he used an Italian word that Grandma says I’m not allowed to repeat.”
“I said that quietly,” Mario protested, rolling a chocolate chip into the precise center of a cookie.
“I have exceptional hearing. It’s a gift.” Olivia grabbed another handful of chocolate chips. “Like how I heard Mom on the phone with Aunt Sarah last night saying Mario looked really good in his wet shirt yesterday.”
The dough slipped out of my hands and hit the counter with a thwack. “OLIVIA ROSE.”
“What? You did! You said, and I quote, ‘Sarah, you should have seen him carrying those planters, his shirt was all wet from the rain and?—’”
“How about we talk about something else?” I interrupted, my face burning hotter than the preheated oven. “Like homework. Or chores. Or taking a vow of silence.”
“Boring.” She turned to Mario with the focus of a tiny prosecutor. “Mr. Mario, do you know about my dad?”
The kitchen went still. Even the stand mixer seemed to hold its breath.
Mario’s eyes found mine across the island, a question in them. I gave a tiny nod, because apparently, tonight was the night for emotional excavation via baked goods.
“Tell him the funny part, Mom!” Olivia bounced on her toes, sending flour puffing into the air.
“There’s a funny part?” Mario asked carefully.
“Oh, yes!” Olivia was gleeful now. “My dad was allergic to responsibilities! Tell him, Mom!”
She delivered it like a punchline, complete with jazz hands, and despite everything—despite the pain of that history, despite my current emotional chaos—I laughed.
“That’s what I tell people,” I admitted, rolling a ball of dough between my palms. “When they ask why he’s not around. ‘Oh, Daniel? Terrible allergy to responsibilities. Made him break out in hives and disappear to Seattle.’”
“Seattle specifically?” Mario was fighting a smile.
“That’s where he fled. Apparently, the Pacific Northwest is better for his condition.”
“The condition of being a coward,” Olivia added helpfully, now drawing a face on her cookie with frosting. “That’s what Grandma calls it after her wine book club.”
“Olivia, what have we discussed about repeating things you overhear?”
“Only do it when it’s funny or important. This is both.”
She looked at Mario with those devastating eyes. “He left when I was a baby. But it’s okay because Mom says we’re better off without someone who couldn’t handle how awesome we are.”
My heart squeezed. I’d worked so hard to frame Daniel’s abandonment in a way that wouldn’t scar her, wouldn’t make her feel unwanted or not enough.
“That’s right, baby. We’re totally awesome.”
“The most awesome,” she agreed. “Though it would be nice to have someone around who can reach the high shelves. Mom has to stand on a chair, and last week she fell off and said a word that made June gasp.”
“I caught my balance!”
“You knocked over an entire display of soup cans. The store manager was very concerned.”
