Page 47 of Our Ruined Beginnings

But now she’s here, in my kitchen, baking them in front of me.

She hasn’t noticed me lurking, so I take my chance to watch her.

Her hair is thrown up in a loose bun, the strands held haphazardly together with a black ribbon. Thin tendrils frame her face, and she brushes them back before refocusing her attention on the bowl laid on the counter before her.

There isn’t a lick of makeup on her brown skin, and she glows under the fluorescent lights, her full bottom lip trapped between her teeth as she works with only an oversized top covering her body.

She’s beautiful—always has been—but there’s something about her relaxed stance, about the complete and utter comfort and freedom she seems to feel here, that sends my pulse racing.

I don’t know what catches her attention, but suddenly, she looks my way and gasps as she sees me watching from the shadows, dropping the spoon she was holding into the large bowl.

“Jesus,” she whisper-shouts. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”

I stalk slowly toward her, and the wary edge she gets guts me. I hate that I make her feel that way when I used to be her comfort.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

She shakes her head lightly and turns her attention back to her ingredients.

“What are you making?”

“Trash cookies,” she answers softly, her voice cracking slightly as my eyes find hers. Emotions swim in the depths, years of memories threatening to spill out with just those two words.

Trash cookies were always our thing. We used to make these practically every other day in December, but for some reason, Christmas Eve was always the cut off. They were our unofficial holiday treat.

“You know Christmas is over, right?” I tease.

“I know… I guess I wanted to extend this one as long as possible.”

A soft smile graces her lips, and I quickly turn away, rushing over to the pantry instead of letting myself dwell on her words.

My fingers curl around the shelf as I heave in a deep breath, running through the ingredients in my head before grabbing them. White Reese’s, chocolate chips, pretzels, potato chips, and sprinkles. Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.

This I can do. Focus on the menial. Lose myself in the mindless task we’ve done a thousand times before.

Harper’s finishing up the dough as I drop the bits on the counter and wash my hands.

She waits patiently, watching me crush the chocolate chunks until there’s a heap piled into the bowl. She mixes them all in, and we roll balls together in silence. It’s nice, though.

We don’t have to discuss anything; I don’t have to be reminding us both where we stand. In the middle of the night, in the quiet kitchen, we complete the tradition I never thought we’d do again.

I put the laden tray into the oven, and when I turn, she’s leant against the counter, watching me like I was watching her earlier.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she says softly, but she doesn’t turn away, and I can’t help myself—my eyes wander down her body. It’s only then I notice the shirt she’s wearing. One I recognize well.

“My shirt?” I ask before thinking it through, and she blinks, looking down at herself as if she hasn’t even realized.

“Oh. Yeah.”

“I didn’t know you still have it.”

“I do,” she says simply, with a shrug.

“You sleep in it?”

“I do…” she answers softly, the ghost of a smile crossing her lips. “It reminds me of … happier times.”

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