In Case You Didn't Know

Chapter 25

3 weeks later

Today is what I'd call a successful day. I had a meeting with Charlotte this morning, met with old friends for lunch, stopped by the supermarket, and even got some laundry done. My multi-tasking skills have increased greatly since leaving my job at Midwest. Writing —the purpose of it all— has also improved; I've been perched in front of my desk for the last two hours, laptop and notepad on one side and a glass of rosé on the other.

Just as I'm taking a sip from my pink-coloured, fruity, flowery drink, my phone buzzes on the corner of the desk, a text from the person I was expecting the least.

Do you know how to bake cookies?

It crosses my mind that he has texted the wrong person. Weeks without talking and this is the first thing he says?

Why?

His response takes merely seconds.

Michelle is sick and I asked if she needed help with anything.

She said bake cookies.

He texted me about two weeks ago. He wanted to know if I'd be willing to offer constructive criticism to a piece he had just finished writing. He sent the document to my e-mail, and except for a few minutes later that night discussing its contents over the phone, that's about all the communication we've had since he walked out of my apartment. Since I unconsciously told him to— from my life altogether, one might say.

Come over.

Sense of self-preservation and making smarter decisions? Yes, that has definitely not improved.

Half an hour later Nathaniel is walking inside the apartment. I notice that he has shaved. His beard is still considerably thicker than how he used to wear it, but now you wouldn't mistake him for a tormented rock start. When we are in the kitchen, I ask him if he is okay with peanut butter oatmeal cookies —he doesn't seem to care at all, but a part of me still wants Michelle to like me, so...

Once I have assorted all the ingredients that we'd need on the countertop, I retrieve two aprons from a hook on the pantry door.

"All this to make cookies?" His eyes are wide and his hands rest on his hips as he wonders rather confused.

"I burn things out pretty well, remember?" I tie the apron around my waist, and hand him the other one. I put the oats, flour, baking soda, and the rest of dry ingredients in a bowl and hand it to Nathaniel with instructions to whisk them together. When we first met, he used to brag about his culinary skills. He cooked delicious dishes for me a few times, but delicious had nothing to do with mixing, beating, and anything related with adroitness, apparently. It's hard not to laugh at him; his brows knitted together, the tip of his tongue trapped between his teeth, the occasional huff.

When I'm done mixing the butter, peanut butter, sugar, and beaten eggs, I ask Nathaniel for his bowl and give him nothing but compliments. See? I can be good. He smiles proudly but his triumph is short-lived—his pronounced frown reappears when I tell him that we have to scoop the dough into perfectly rounded balls with our bare hands.

"These are for Ellie's play date tomorrow, by the way."

"She's super cute."

"She is. She's a handful, too."

"Andrew's baby was born last weekend." My phone rang in the middle of the night. I picked up to a nervous wreck Andrew telling me that he was about to become a father. Little Mia was born the next morning, and I hadn't seen my friends as happy as they were holding her in their arms. I'm making a mental note to phone them and ask if I can cook lunch for them one of these days, when a handful of flour hits me flat on the chest.