Page 28 of Lotus

“Can I have one?”

Oliver studies me, debating his answer. “Only if you promise you don’t have cooties.”

“I promise,” I tell him. “Cross my heart. I haven’t been sick since last Christmas.”

My response seems to please him, so he picks up the plate and holds it up. “They’re oatmeal. My favorite.”

Yes!

“I love oatmeal!” I wipe my chalk-covered hand against my jumper, having spent the last few minutes writing my name along the driveway, and snatch up one of the treats. I waste no time before I devour it. “So good.”

“How old are you?” Oliver asks, flicking a crumb off his knee.

“Five.”

“I’m six.”

“Cool,” I smile. We sit in silence, side-by-side, shoulders to shoulder, watching kids ride by on their bicycles. It’s a warm afternoon in June, and Mama finally let me go to the neighbor’s house by myself. “So, do you think we can be friends?”

He doesn’t take too long to reply, swatting at his tawny hair that almost covers his eyes. “I guess so. You’re not as annoying as my little brother.”

A high-pitched toddler scream filters through the screen door, and we both look at each other with a laugh.

“I have a big sister. She’s annoying, too.”

“Do you thinktheyhave cooties?” Oliver wonders, a goofy grin forming on his face.

“Definitely.”

We giggle again, and Oliver plucks a stick from the ground and begins to trace the cement cracks. “Want to go in the backyard and jump on my trampoline?”

“Sure!” I exclaim, practically leaping off the stoop with excitement. “Let’s go.”

We race around the house, through the gate, and climb onto the trampoline, laughing and out of breath. We bounce for hours, until day turns to dusk and the summer sun sets behind the scattered clouds. We end the night gazing up at the star-filled sky, our shoulders pressed together, lightning bugs buzzing around us as we share stories and knock-knock jokes.

I have a feeling Oliver Lynch is going to become my new best friend.

Clementine and Poppy are helping me bake a batch of oatmeal cookies for Oliver as a “thanks for fighting off that psychopath the other day” gratitude gift. I have no idea what he likes anymore, and this was better than a fruit basket. Nobody likes a fruit basket.

Besides, Oliver’s mom used to make thebestoatmeal cookies. He loved them. I’m hoping the taste will help trigger memories from his childhood.

While I was proud of my choice of gift, the plot twist is that I can’t bake a cookie that even my cat would consider—and she’s eaten mice.

That’s why I have back-up.

“Auntie Syd, look at me!”

I glance at Poppy, who is holding up her flour-dusted hands with a gigantic smile. My five-year-old niece does a little jig, spinning in a circle and making a silly face, her blonde ponytail spinning with her. “You look like you’re making some pretty delicious cookies,” I say, propping my fist against my waist and admiring her handywork.

The timer beeps, signaling that my first batch of cookies are finished. I race to the oven, eager to view my masterpieces, and whip open the door. A frown settles between my eyes. “What the heck? Why are they totally flat?”

Clem skips over to me, peering at the tray of cookie failures as I pull them out of the oven with two potholders. She blinks. “Did you remember the eggs?”

I scoff at her. “Of course I… didnotremember the eggs. God! What is wrong with me?”

“They’re kind of cute—like flat little pancakes.”

“They arenotcute! There is nothing cute about being twenty-nine years old and having zero baking skills. This, right here, is the reason I’m single.”

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