Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 129881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 649(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129881 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 649(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
ok
good night
I stare at the screen for at least a full minute, the light harsh enough to make me squint in the darkened room, and I don’t know why I think it’s a little odd that Felix is telling me good night, but I do.
Maybe because the last person who texted me the same was Katie.
Friends I used to have never sent something like this.
My brother never texts me good night, even if we’re having a conversation and he knows I’m going to bed.
He doesn’t ever say it to me either, now that I’m living with him. We just acknowledge what’s happening and then go our separate ways.
I’m overthinking this. Why am I overthinking this? Who gives a fuck?
I text it back because it’s not a big deal.
good night
And only because it’s Felix.
He’s my sponsor/friend (I think we’re friends). But because he’s also my sponsor, he’s important. More important than other friends I’ve had.
If I had any other friends right now and they told me good night, I probably wouldn’t give enough of a fuck to respond because it wouldn’t matter to them.
With Felix, it matters. I just know it does.
But I’m really, mainly sending it back because I don’t want Felix to think I’m a dick.
And because it also matters to me. Because he’s important (as my sponsor).
And it would bother me if I didn’t respond.
Jesus Christ.
Cursing at myself for acting so fucking weird about this, I roll over and force my eyes shut, waiting for sleep to take hold.
And I absolutely do not think about good-night texts. Or smiles in the dark.
Fuck.
I have flour everywhere.
Also, baking is way more complicated than I thought it was going to be.
Like, stupid complicated.
How the fuck do you tell if a cookie sheet is nonstick? Because you have to know, the oven temperature depends on it, and wouldn’t it be so fucking easy if it actually said NONSTICK on the goddamned fucking sheet itself? Like on the bottom or something? (It doesn’t. I checked.) But wouldn’t that make the most sense? How long have people been making cookies? No one has come up with this genius solution yet? Or maybe the assholes at Nestle could’ve created a recipe that doesn’t rely on cookie sheet stickiness, and I wouldn’t need to guess and then guess wrong, burning the shit out of my first batch because the temperature was up twenty-five degrees too high.
Anyway, my second attempt looks much better. Edible, even.
Go me.
“Something’s burning,” CJ announces as he walks down the hallway. He halts at the entrance to the kitchen. “What are you doing?”
I look down at the cookie sheet I’ve just pulled out of the oven, the one I’m still currently holding in front of myself. “Knitting a sweater.”
“Oh, he’s got jokes today.”
“My whole life is a fucking joke.” I sigh and shake my head as CJ walks over. “I don’t know why I said that. I didn’t mean it.”
I set the cookie sheet down and pull off the oven mitts, tossing them onto the counter.
“There’s flour everywhere,” my brother says.
“I know. I’ll clean it up.”
He squeezes the back of my neck. “Why are you baking?”
“I needed a hobby. Felix suggested it.”
“Felix?”
“My sponsor.”
He picks up one of the cookies I have yet to discard from my first attempt and knocks it against the edge of the plate.
Ping. Ping. Ping.
He arches a brow and smirks.
“Everything should just be nonstick. One option. Why make things difficult?” I grumble.
“Whatever that means.” Laughing, he gives my neck another squeeze before letting go. He rounds the kitchen island, asking, “Wanna go to the gym with me?”
I glance at the time on the microwave. “Can’t. I’m heading out to a meeting soon.”
“That’s good.”
“Yeah. There’s going to be cupcakes…”
He stares at me.
“What? Snacks are important at these things. They can make or break a meeting.”
“Says the baker.” He grins, flipping his truck keys around his finger.
I follow his gaze and look down at the apron I’m wearing.
It’s adorned with flowers. I’m certain it’s Riley’s.
“I’ve fully embraced this, and I regret nothing. So, go fuck yourself.”
CJ chuckles, and I find myself smiling now too.
“Are you gonna be back for dinner?” he asks.
“Probably.”
“Call if you’re not, okay? Let me know what you’re doing.”
“I will.”
“All right. Later.”
“Later.”
He heads out the door.
I look at the batter still left in the bowl and tighten my apron.
“Goddamned right, I’m a baker.”
Felix is waiting for me outside St. Matthew’s Church, beanie slouched low and smile on his face, and I notice he’s wearing another shirt that has the sides cut out, showing off the block of script running down his ribcage.
When I get up close enough, I can’t help but read it.
“You Are My Sunshine?”
He raises his arm to look at it himself. “Pretty sweet, right? My mom used to sing it to me. She died when I was seven.”