Page 18 of One Little Lie
A primitive sound grumbles in the back of my throat as GG approaches.
“Tell me what draws you to baking, Fibs.”
“The control.” There’s no hesitation. I know why baking soothes me. “I always know what I’m going to get. Two and a quarter cups flour, perfectly sifted and measured cut into cold butter, will yield the same result every time. It’s numbers and measurements. It’s exact. It’s honest.”
“That’s true, sometimes,” she hedges. My body stiffens as she moves closer, washes her hands, and steps beside me at the mixer. “But sometimes, things in our world change, Halton. Altitude, for instance. You can use the exact same recipe here and again in Denver, Colorado, and you’re gonna have a very different experience. You see, while you control what you can control, there’s always the potential for that outside force to knock your plans to hell.”
She turns the beaters of the mixer off earlier than I would have liked. Glancing at the clock, I know I wanted to whip the butter and sugar for another forty-five seconds.
“And sometimes, you have to learn to adapt.” She presses the button on my timer, and I grind my teeth.
I can’t be rude to her; this is her fucking kitchen.
“Betty Anne’s neighbor churned this butter you’re using,” she explains. “Homemade butter isn’t the same as store-bought, so you adapt.” She lifts the arm of the mixer and motions for me to add my dry ingredients.
Begrudgingly, I do.
“When did you start baking, Fibs?”
“In college.”
“Any reason you only make cookies?”
“I-I make other things, too,” I lie.
She scrutinizes my face as I dump a portion of the flour mixture into the mixer. “Mmhmm. I’m willin’ to bet most people in your life have no idea when you’re stretchin’ the truth. Am I right?”
“I’m not a liar, GG.” My words are cold, but she doesn’t back down.
“No, I reckon ya ain’t. I’m willin’ to bet you’ve only ever told a handful of lies in your entire life, but the ones you did tell? Woo-wee. They broke you in so many ways you haven’t been able to recover.”
I turn my back on her to grab the peanut butter. I’m not sure what happened to the cookies I made last night, but hopefully, these will make their way to Rylan.
“What did ya do before the baking? What was your outlet?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Fibby. It matters more than ya know. Until ya stop punishin’ yaself, everyone’s going to hurt.”
My nostrils flare, and I have to work to control my breathing. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Baking’s not your passion, Fibby. Your passion is what keeps you alive. It feeds your soul. Ya wanna know why your gal doesn’t have a name yet?”
“No.” Sweat forms on my hairline, and I wipe it with the sleeve of my shirt.
“’Cause you’re so locked away she can’t get in, even when she wants to. We’ve got to fix you before the cards can reveal your truth.”
Her words. Today. It all makes me snap, and my fist comes down on the counter with a crack. “I’m not broken, GG.”
She raises a silvery eyebrow and stares me down.
My voice is shaky and unsure. “Did you need something, GG?” I quickly bend to grab the cookie sheets so she can’t see my eyes. I know there will be no hiding the sadness there tonight.
“Remember when you all ambushed the McDowells’ home for Thanksgiving?”
Jesus, how could I forget. Preston’s best friend, Dexter, had made it his mission to make GG’s other granddaughterhis forever. We descended on this tiny town like a pack of wild boars.
“I saw you then, you know. Really saw you. Hiding out in the corners of life. When’s the last time you were a part of the conversation, Halton? Not just a body that moved with the sea but actually lived in all that life has to offer? You’re keeping yaself in black and white while the world moves on in vivid color. Life’s happening all around you, yet you lock yourself away in purgatory.”
