1. ashton #2
“I accidentally maxed out my credit card buying Rowan Thorne concert tickets so now I can’t afford to fly back to Austin next month and if you help me out I promise, promise, promise I’ll pay you back.
” My words fall out in a rush, bracketed by breathy, slightly delirious laughter.
I press my palm into the dough in the mixing bowl a little harder than I intend to and the bowl rattles against the counter.
My hand leaves a perfect imprint. It’s mixed to the perfect consistency.
All that’s left to do is shape and bake.
“Accidentally, huh?” My brother laughs, and it teases a smile from my lips.
It’s free and easy, the way he used to laugh all the time.
The way I haven’t heard him laugh for a long time.
There’s another laugh growing closer in the background, something softer with a higher pitch, and I realize he’s not alone anymore.
“It was an accident,” I insist. “My finger slipped.”
Everett snorts. “I’ll email you your flight details. You’d better bring some cookies home with you.”
“I promise,” I say, covering the bowl with plastic wrap and shoving it in the fridge. My hands are far too warm for cookies right now.
“What does—I mean—will your—” For fuck’s sake, Ashton. Spit it out. “Will Ruth be there? What kind of cookies does she like? Does she even eat cookies?”
There’s a quiet sigh on the other end of the line, and for the briefest fraction of a second, I worry my brother is about to tell me his marriage ended as soon as it began.
That he’s heartbroken, and that as well as healing my own heart when I go home, I’ll have to fix his, too.
I worry he’ll tell me she doesn’t eat cookies, only salad, and that she’s somehow the complete opposite of our entire food-loving family.
Salad is fine, I guess. But we Tanners live to eat as much as we eat to live.
And we’re not exactly picky about what we eat, either, my shellfish allergy notwithstanding.
But then the other voice moves closer still.
“Ruth eats cookies,” it says. It’s gentle, smoky and sweet with an accent I’ve never heard before.
It’s not the posh kind of London accent from the movies, and it’s not that funny cockney one either.
It’s somewhere in the middle. The husky smoke has blonde curls dancing behind my eyes. “Ruth loves cookies.”
“Ruth likes to talk about herself like she’s not here,” Everett interrupts.
His voice suddenly sounds a little further away, like he’s holding the phone away from his face.
“Excuse her, she’s just flown a couple thousand miles.
She’s jet lagged, she don’t know what she’s talking about.
She don’t even like cookies that much. Just bring them all for me, okay, Ashey? ”
There’s a light slapping sound, skin on skin, and a quiet yelp followed by my brother’s laughter.
“Hi Ashton,” Ruth says. Her voice is close; I’m not on speakerphone anymore. “It’s Ruth. I’d love it if you brought cookies. I don’t really mind what kind—whatever you feel like baking. Ev says they’re really good, so I’m looking forward to trying them. And to meeting you.”
“Give me my phone, wife,” my brother demands in the background. I can’t work out what happens next, but Ruth squeals with laughter, and then Everett’s voice is on the line again, chuckling.
“I’ll email your flight details. Love you, kid. See you soon.”
“Don’t call me kid.”
“Would you rather I called you Pocket Rocket?”
“Nope. Kid is fine. Bye, Evvy. Thanks for the flight.”
I reach across the counter, jabbing the screen to hang up before Everett can hang up on me.
It’s a dumb game we’ve been playing for over a decade now.
He beats me to it this time, the loud beep of the call-end signal meeting the shrill alarm of my oven in a discomforting cacophony.
I wrap my hands in a pair of oven mitts before pulling out the two trays of muffins and setting them to cool.
Then I turn to the blondies. I got creative with them this time, mixing up a batch of traditional brownie batter, too, and marbling them together.
They look great, and they smell even better.
Before I remove them from the pan, I drag the wire rack across the counter and arrange a couple cutting boards and jars in the background so I can take a few pictures for my social media.
The social media girlies do love themselves some aesthetically-arranged brownies.
The first time I posted brownies, I had to turn off my notifications.
The constant buzzing of my phone kept me awake half the night, and the picture gained me thousands of followers.
The second one got me my culinary scholarship.
The most recent brownies shot is my most-liked post.
Before I’ve even finished snapping photos, a text arrives.
Everett
flight details in your inbox. Love you ashey.
I press my lips together in a sad smile.
I miss my brother, and the homesick ache in my chest is making me want to sit and gorge myself on these brownies all afternoon.
I contemplate calling my mom just to hear her voice.
To hear the creak of the swinging bench seat on the porch that she loves so much.
To hear the suncatchers and whippoorwills again, like when I was on the phone with Everett.
But I really do have to perfect this new cookie recipe if I want to apologize to my brother and make a good impression on his wife, and if I call Mom now, I’ll be on the phone for two hours, and I won’t bake a thing.
I raid the fridge for something savory, throw a sandwich together and scarf it down whilst posting my brownie photos, and then tackle the cookies.
Later, I’ll box up a few of these blondies and overnight them to Austin. I’m still mad at Everett, but he’s still my big brother. And I still love him more than I’ll ever tell.