Chapter 11
Tori
Why was I doing this again? I must be out of my fucking mind for even considering such a thing.
I’d talked myself out of it multiple times over the last couple of days, and yet here I fucking was, coming off a fucking double shift at the Neon Possum and running on five hours of sleep. With a huff, I shook my head slightly and chewed on the inside of my cheek.
Setting one foot in front of the other, I crept toward the kitchen and stopped to listen for suspicious sounds again. Straining my ears, I tried to locate Gran’s whereabouts, but I didn’t hear anything out of the ordinary.
Maybe I was lucky and she was busy out in the yard. My bare feet padded against the hardwood as I rounded the corner into the kitchen, only to freeze dead in my tracks.
God-fucking-damnit.
Lo and behold, there she was, already waiting for me. Her red lipstick was immaculate, her gold rings were sparkling on her fingers, and her hair was perfectly styled, even though it was barely 8 A.M.
Curse this woman for being able to sense mischief from three fucking rooms away.
“How did you even know about this?” I huffed out as I watched her tie an apron around her waist, grinning smugly. Then I did a double take. “Does the apron say ‘Hot Stuff Coming Through’?”
“Yes, isn’t it wonderful?” Gran beamed.
“Not exactly the word I’d use,” I muttered under my breath, venturing further into the kitchen. “So, what gave me away?”
“Darling, do you think I wouldn’t notice you buying this many eggs? I’m eighty-seven, not blind.”
“Tell that to the police officer who took your license.”
“I’ll have you know, I’m a wonderful driver. All my friends say so. That officer had it out for me.” She sniffed indignantly.
“Really, Gran? Why would a random officer have it out for you?” I snorted. “Also, your friends only said you’re a wonderful driver because they’re afraid of you.”
“Excuse me? They are not!”
“They so are. Remember the time you mowed down Martha’s fence? It was right after she told you you always brake too hard. She thinks it was retaliation for her comment, and ever since then, they’ve been too afraid to tell you the truth.”
“Pish-posh. She hit the dash once and blamed it all on me. She’s too sensitive.” Gran made a dismissive gesture.
“Sure, Gran. You almost broke her nose!” I rolled my eyes.
“Nonsense. Martha’s always been an attention seeker.”
Pot meet kettle.
“Of course she has.”
“So, dear, who are we baking for?”
Heat rushed to my cheeks and I hastily turned toward the counter, pulling open cabinets and dragging out random ingredients. “It’s just, you know, just a … pavlova.”
Her eyebrows rose dramatically. “A pavlova?”
“That’s what I’ve just said.”
Please don’t ask, please don’t ask.
“Interesting.”
I huffed. “Not interesting at all. It’s just a … well, a pavlova.”
“Yes, we've established it's a pavlova, dear. Who is it for?”
“It’s for, well, I suppose you could say it’s for a friend?”
“A friend?” she echoed and I could feel her gaze burning into my back.
“Yes, Gran,” I groaned. “A friend.”
“Mhm, I see.” She clapped her hands once. “What’s the occasion?”
“A birthday.”
“Oooooh, is that right? I love birthdays! Well, let’s get cracking then. I’m going to die soon, you know; best not to waste my precious time.”
I should have known the universe wouldn’t let me bake in peace. Shooting her a pointed look over my shoulder, I bent down to dig out her ancient mixer.
Of fucking course it was shoved into the farthest corner of the deepest cabinet.
“Hand me the eggs, would you?” I called over my shoulder.
When I faced her, her eyes narrowed on me with the accuracy of a sniper.
“I know!” She pointed a crooked finger at the eggs. “It’s for our big shiny boy next door, isn’t it?”
“He’s not shiny.”
She hummed, indicating her deep disagreement. “He looks shiny. And sweet. Like a labrador in human form.”
“Gran, he’s annoying.” I huffed.
“Mm-hm,” she replied, in a tone indicating I had just confirmed her theory.
Despite all my protests, Gran insisted on separating the eggs herself.
We were one egg in when she dropped half the shell and a dribble of yolk into the bowl and said, “Whoops. Never mind, dear, it adds texture. Nothing wrong with adding a bit of character.”
“We are not serving Kai a textured eggshell abomination.” I fished them out. The cold guck coated my fingers and I cringed. Gross.
She gave me a dismissive flick of her wrist. “Young people need grit in their diet.”
I pulled a face and scooped out the cornstarch. “That’s disgusting.”
“Toughen up, dear.”
She moved to turn the mixer on before I could stop her. The starch puffed up and coated our faces in a white, powdery sheen.
I blinked slowly, turned my head to meet her gaze and we both burst into a fit of laughter.
“You know,” she said, throwing more sugar into the mixing bowl with way too much enthusiasm, “I sometimes think I was born in the wrong time.”
“Oh yeah, how come?”
“I always felt like I had to hide the best parts of me. Your grandfather and I met when I was just fifteen, and we got married a year later. It was all so different, all so … difficult. Especially for a young woman. I was never allowed to let my fire burn hot, and I’m just so glad no one’s dimming yours, darling.
If you’d been born in my day, you’d have been wasted folding laundry and pretending to love your husband. ”
She paused, her eyes softening, and I was rooted to the spot.
“You deserve more than what this life gave me. So you must make sure you live life to the fullest and seize every opportunity coming your way.”
I gave her a slow nod, although what she was asking me to do seemed impossible. How could I seize opportunities and live life to the full when I was tied to this town by duty?
I wish I could say the rest of the baking proceeded in a more orderly fashion, but that would be wishful thinking. By the time I slid the pavlova base into the oven, the kitchen looked like a goddamn battlefield.
Gran was scraping the mixing bowl for remnants of the meringue when I turned around.
“You’re like a raccoon,” I remarked, shaking my head at her.
Gran wasn’t the easiest person on earth, but she had always been there for me. She was the one who made sure I had dinner and rides and who screamed at the school principal when necessary.
She’d done everything for me, and now we traded places.
I owed her so much, probably more than I could ever repay. But every time I even mentioned something along those lines, she’d always say the same.
That one didn’t weigh up one’s actions against another’s within a family.
That everything she’d done for me, she’d done because she wanted to.
I knew she was right, yet I still felt like I had to make it up to her. I had to be there for her; if I didn’t, who else would?
For the fourth time, I caught her sneaking a finger of the sweet foam from the bowl. Threatening her with my spatula, I gave her a stern look. “Stop eating it.”
“Quality control.”
“You’re going to get diabetes.”
“Bah. Who cares? I'll die soon anyway.”
“…Gran.”
“Don’t take away my joy in my last stretch of life, dear.”
I snorted. “That stretch of life is longer than your doctor’s list of things you’re not supposed to eat.”
“Excuse me? Why would I listen to that baby-faced moron? What does he know? I made it to eighty-seven just fine without his lists. If tasty food is what kills me, then so be it.”
Gran sniffed, pointedly scooped up more of the mixture and stuffed it in her mouth.
I rolled my eyes in exasperation.
“Why are you baking for Kai, anyway?” She dramatically sank into her chair. “Thought you didn’t like him.”
“I don’t,” I replied immediately.
She raised an eyebrow, and heat rushed to my cheeks.
“I don’t,” I repeated stubbornly, cutting the fruit with unnecessary force.
“Ah yes,” she mused. “The classic ‘I don’t like him but I know his birthday and also his favorite dessert’ situation.”
“He kind of told me it’s his birthday,” I admitted quietly.
“How does one kind of tell you about their birthday?”
I waved a hand impatiently. “He was … talking. And smiling. And being all sweaty with his big dumb muscles and his stupid smile.”
Gran bit back a grin. “So you do like him.”
“I don’t. He’s too … nice.”
“Ah, yes. It’s awful when they’re nice.”
I huffed. “He’s invasive.”
“And handsome.”
“Gran.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. If she kept this up, I’d be the one to end up in an early grave.
She shrugged. “Just saying. I’m old, not blind.”
Neither was I, and what was worse, now I knew how he felt.
The heat and weight of his body.
The way he’d breathed against my neck.
The way he’d looked at me as if he wanted to memorize me, burn my image into his brain forever.
And, being the soft-hearted fool I was, I was now making him a fucking birthday pavlova. As if this couldn’t get any weirder.
When I looked up again, I found Gran eyeing me thoughtfully; her eyes were as sharp as a fox's.
“Darling,” she said softly, “if someone makes you feel alive … it means something. You can’t live your life for other people. Especially not for me.”
I ducked my head, hiding my expression as I pretended to scrape the bowl.
“It’s just a pavlova,” I muttered defensively.
“Uh-huh.” I could hear the smile in her voice. “And I’m the Queen of England.”
The goddamn pavlova ended up collapsing. Go fucking figure. Gran declared it “rustic” but I just wanted to die. I couldn’t take this fucking mess over there, I’d embarrass myself.
“He’ll like it.” Gran put a reassuring hand on my shoulder.
This woman knew me far too well.
“It’s ruined.” I sounded more distraught than I would’ve liked.
“He’ll ruin you if you’re lucky,” she quipped.
I snorted. “Gran! You’re impossible.”
“What? I’m sure he could.” She shrugged.
“Please.” I covered my face with my hands. “Just, please, stop talking.”
By the time I’d finished decorating the thing with cream and fresh fruit, I’d run out of excuses not to deliver it.
Gran practically shoved the decorative platter into my hands. “Go on. Before you change your mind or drop dead from nerves.”
“I’m not nervous.”
She pinched my cheeks with one hand and tucked my hair behind my ear with the other. “Then stop sweating like a sinner in church, dear.”
I glared at her, but she just waved me toward the door, looking far too pleased with herself.
Which is how I ended up standing on Kai’s porch, smash-lova in hand, trying to pretend this wasn’t the dumbest thing I’d done all year.
I knocked once, my hands sweating so much, I was afraid the platter would slip straight out of them. Not as if it could look any worse than it already did.
Maybe he wasn’t home.
A girl could hope, right?