twisted | ✔️

chapter four

I only did these kinds of things for my mother, despite the fact that I was one hundred and ten percent opposed to it, which was why I was in the kitchen, wearing a backless, little red dress that she'd picked up for me, an apron draped over the front of it, pulling a batch of cookies out of the oven and resting it on the stovetop. There were already several plates full of them occupying every spare inch on the kitchen island, as well as bowls of pretzels and hummus, fruit platters, trays of skewered cheese cubs and prosciutto; the breakfast nook table stocked with champagne resting in ice, a gallon of orange juice and bottles of sparkling water, plastic cutlery and cups, paper plates—like we were hosting an army.

I turned around to shut off the stove, and it felt like I'd been baking all day though it wasn't even eleven o'clock. I'd stumbled home around midnight, not wanting to spend yet another night in that godforsaken room, next to a guy who found pride in telling me he loved making women feel good, who whispered in my ear how sexy I was, how well I was doing, and whose bed I crawled out of feeling more unsatisfied and mortified than when I'd crawled in.

I glanced at the clock; there were ten minutes before everyone would start showing up, coworkers from my mom's work, friends from college, neighbors, and I knew I hadn't been alive for it, but I wondered if she'd gone through this much trouble for her and my dad's wedding.

"That looks beautiful on you," I heard her voice say, appearing as soon as I'd pulled the apron off over my head. I knew I was nothing special, my hair in straight lines down my back, plain black pumps on my feet, but she looked at me with adoration in her eyes, like only a mother can. "Thank you for doing all this," she said, gesturing to the plethora of cookies taking up her kitchen.

"It's not a problem," I said. "I actually don't mind baking at all." And I didn't; focusing on a recipe, on the ingredients and the exact measurements, kept me from focusing on anything else. It was soothing, and I felt more relaxed that morning than I should have.

My mom stepped fully into the kitchen and took a seat at one of the barstools across from me, crossing her arms in front of her, a sign she meant business.

"You're okay with all this, right?" she asked.

No.

"Yes," I said instead, "why?"

"I know that it's different," she explained, "but I want to make sure that you're not keeping anything from me before I go through with this. That I have your honest opinion."

"Mom," I said, leaning up against the counter behind me, "You don't need my opinion to make your decision. I'm an adult now. This doesn't affect me like it would have if I were still a kid."

"But it matters to me. I mean, I can't possibly imagine . . . I know it hasn't been that long, but—I still think about him every day, you know. It's not like . . ." She was lost for words, and I knew what she was trying to say—that it wasn't like she was trying to forget my father or force herself to move on, but that it was time, although I couldn't fathom how there could ever possibly be a time for that. But I kept my mouth shut, because even though she asked, she didn't want my opinion on the matter, not if it wasn't a positive review.

"Jonathan's a good man," she continued, "and I'd like for you to give him a chance, to get to know him."

There was no way in hell I was doing that, but I answered, "Sure. I can do that."

The doorbell rang, granting me a reprieve from having to lie to her anymore, the first of her guests arriving. She pushed herself up onto her feet, padding over to wrap me her arms around me. Her hug spoke volumes, telling me how much she loved me and appreciated what I was doing. She pulled back and put her hands on the sides of my face, and I half-expected some apology.