Page 36 of Between Love and War
He’s still annoying most times, but I have to admit, he’s okay to be around.
I arrive inside and change into pajamas. Then I start preparing my cookie batch for the next two days. I take the leftover dough from the freezer, and pop it in the oven. While that group is baking, I’m making another batch. Flour, eggs, sugar, butter, repeat. It’s so therapeutic.
I developed my love for baking when I was in high school. Haley and I needed something for a bake sale. Of course, her plan was to buy overpriced brownies from the café, rip off the sticker, and pass them off as ours. “They’re basically homemade,” she said, “someone made them at home… just not us.”
I could have agreed, but even at thirteen, I had a weird moral compass. So I baked. From scratch. People bought them and it gave me this burst of serotonin. And now, it’s just partof my coping mechanism. Even when I didn’t have anything to cope with.
There’s something incredibly satisfying about baking. The precision. The transformation. The way everything makes sense once it’s measured and mixed. Unlike, say, revealing your lifelong romantic drought to your next-door neighbor-slash-national athlete and then spending the rest of the evening replaying every word in your head like a courtroom cross-examination.
I scoop the dough onto the tray, spacing them evenly. Little blobs of hope.
Just as I put the tray in the oven, I hear footsteps coming.
“Ooooh, fresh cookies,” Haley says as she strides into view. “I didn’t notice you leave, why did you leave with Mike?” she asks.
“You never notice anything when you’re with Richard. You’re always too engrossed in your little world,” I say with a sly smile.
“Don’t even start that again. You’re deflecting,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You’re the one walking at night with the hot new neighbor.”
“Yeah, right, like something can come out fromthat.” I wipe the counter clean and put the baking bowls in the sink.
“You never know, Katherine,” Haley says. “But… what do you even talk about? Did anyone get a whiff of your secret romance yet?”
I roll my eyes. “We’re not Emily and Joshua,” I say. “But it might have slipped… that I haven’t had a boyfriend in forever.” I shake my head.
Haley gasps. “OMG. You told the national crush that you’re NBSB?” She laughs. “Is that why you’re spiral baking?” Haley asks, sitting on the counter stool.
“I’m not spiral baking.” The term ‘spiral baking’ originated five years ago, when my first date ever stood me up and I spent the evening baking ten batches of brownies and cookies. Everyone was fed and happy, at least.
“That’s your third batch,” Haley points out, deadpan. “Look,” she continues. “Kate. We’ve talked about this. You can’t just go blurting out your personal lore to attractive men. That’s dangerous.”
“I know! I didn’t do it on purpose, it just slipped,” I say, defending myself.
“Did he make fun of you? Did he tease you? I swear to God if he does, I will hire you a boyfriend to spite him. I’d do that for you.”
“No! No, nothing like that,” I say. “He… just said he couldn’t believe it.”
Haley squeals and stands up from the seat. She walks over to me and shakes me on my shoulders. “I bet he likes you.”
“Haley, no.”
“Yes! I can see it. You are the cute, quirky, clumsy ball he didn’t see coming!” She chuckles. “You should know more about this, Kate, with all the romance books you read.”
I stare at her flatly. “I bake when I’m anxious, Haley. I am not quirky.”
“Oh but you are! You’re really cute too,” she says, pinching my cheek.
I swat her hands away. “Please leave.”
She giggles—genuinely giggles—and starts backing up toward the stairs, smug as ever. “Okay, fine, but when Michael Lee gives you a cheesy confession, don’t say I didn’t call it.”
I roll my eyes so hard they nearly get stuck in the back of my head. “Goodbye, Haley.”
“Goodnight, future girlfriend of the national heartthrob!” she sings, disappearing up the stairs.
I know she means well, they all do, when they say I’m cute or charming, or just so lovable. But “cute” is what people call kittens, or marshmallows with faces, or babies that drool on themselves. No one grows up fantasizing about dating a woman who resembles a kitten. Speaking of kittens, Siopao arrives just in time, sprinkling fur on my kitchen floor.
I sigh as I sweep it away.
