Page 153 of The Charlie Method

“And are you happier without her?”

A lump fills my throat. “That’s a tough one to answer. I’m not the same person I was back then. My idea of happiness is different now.”

She looks at me, really looks at me, her eyes containing a warmth that makes the frigid night bearable. “I’m glad you’re here right now,” she says quietly. “With me.”

I hold her gaze, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. “Me too.”

We fall silent, the weight of the past hanging between us like smoke that refuses to clear. Yet I feel lighter somehow, after letting her see a piece of me I don’t usually show. The realization causes emotion to constrict my chest and throat, making it hard to breathe again.

Yeah.

I’m definitely catching feelings for her.

This isn’t good.

At all.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHARLOTTE

Nonnegotiable

OUR KITCHEN SMELLS LIKE CINNAMON AND SUGAR. IT’S MY FAVORITEcombination in the whole entire world, and the familiar scent of cookies baking in the oven wraps around me like a warm blanket. Mom and I have been at it for hours, our hands dusted with flour, the counter cluttered with cookie cutters and bowls of frosting. It’s one of those moments that feels like it’s out of time, like nothing else in the world matters but the dough beneath my hands and the steady rhythm of Mom’s humming beside me.

This has always been our tradition, a moment of peace amid the usual holiday chaos, but the irony of it is that neither of us are very good bakers. In fact, we sort of suck. Ava’s Christmas cookies taste a hell of a lot better. Even Dad produces superior gingerbread people.

Somehow, Mom and I always end up covered in flour, no matter how careful we are, and we’re officially banned from using the candy cane molds after the Great Penis Cookie Debacle five years ago.

When I was little, Mom tried incorporating Korean cookies into our holiday baking, but she made the mistake of explaining they used rice wine and were deep fried. Like a total brat, I threw a tantrum, because cookies “weren’t supposed to have rice in them.”

And then there was the Christmas they invited Daisy, my elementary school classmate, and her family for dinner thinking it would create a cultural connection, only to discover that Daisy’s family was even more American than ours. Her parents were second-generation Korean Americans who felt zero kinship to their parents’ homeland and didn’t care if Daisy did either. At least mine tried to keep me connected to the culture.

And I resisted it every step of the way.

“These snowflakes look a little sad, don’t they?” Mom teases, nudging me with her elbow as she reaches for another piece of dough.

I glance down at the cookies I’ve been cutting, realizing she’s right. The shapes are uneven, the edges ragged where my hands were shaking a little too much.

I force a smile, trying to keep things light. “Nah. They’re abstract. Very modern.”

She laughs.

“Hey, what were those Korean cookies you used to make when I was a kid?” I ask her.

“Hmm. I can’t remember what they were called, but your dad and brother loved them. Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know. Just thinking it might be nice to learn how to make them.”

Taking a breath, I gauge her reaction, but although she looks startled, she also seems pleased.

“Oh, that would be wonderful, honey. What a great idea. I’ll dig through my old recipe books later. Maybe we can grab some ingredients tomorrow.”

She smiles at me, and for a moment, it feels like everything’s okay. Like I’m just here with my mom, baking cookies for Christmas, and there’s nothing weighing down my chest.

But then the back door opens, and the illusion shatters. Cold air rushes into the kitchen, and with it comes Ava. The tension creeps in behind her like an unwelcome guest.

“Honey! You’re just in time,” Mom says, greeting her with a smile. Her brow furrows when she notices Ava is alone. “Where’s Ash? We thought he was coming with you.”

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