Page 76 of Price of Angels

“But you are so not right now.”

He feigned affronted.

“These cookies,” she continued, “are a reflection of me as a human being. If they’re all misshapen, it means I’m a sloppy mess of a person.”

“That’s stupid.”

“That’s my grandmother for you.”

“Tell her to go to hell,” he suggested.

“I can’t do that; it’s Christmas.”

“Okay, so let me do it.”

“Mercy!” She regretting snapping immediately, closing her eyes and swallowing down her useless, hormonal aggression. “I’m sorry,” she said, glancing at him again. “It’s just that...I haven’t visited with her since I got back home.”

He leaned back against the doorframe. “Since August? You moved back home and haven’t seen her at all?”

“No, and I should have, and she won’t let me forget that. Add to that all that’s changed…” She gestured between them.

“Please tell me she at least knows we got married.”

She winced. “I didn’t exactly tell her…”

“Ah, shit, Ava.”

“But I’m sure Mom told her.”

“How sure?”

“Pretty sure.”

“This isn’t going to go well for me, is it?” he asked with a wry, sideways smile.

“I’m afraid not.”

He shrugged again, as if to sayoh well. “It won’t be the best thing that ever happened, but it won’t be the worst either. Is there something in particular you want me to wear?”

Ava felt the faint pressure of a smile at her lips, and was glad for the brief humor. “Don’t take this the wrong way….but you don’t exactly have a diverse wardrobe.”

He gave her a mock-offended face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I can’t ask you to put on your nice sweater, because you don’t have any nice sweaters. You don’t haveanysweaters, actually.”

“Is this gonna turn into a whole thing where you try to get me to dress different?”

“No, baby. Just wear what you want to. She’s going to yell at you either way.”

“Right.” He turned for the door. “You know, really, I think you’re being over-dramatic.”

“Hmm,” she murmured, “that would be nice.” But she knew what to expect. It wouldn’t be pretty.

Just like the cookies in front of her. She’d tried a new recipe, wanting to impress, pushing her meager cooking skills. Chocolate cookies, seasoned with a dash of ancho chili powder, with dark and white chocolate chips. They were too dark on bottom and the edges were crumbly.

She finished stacking them on the plate she’d take to her parents’ and turned away from them, smoothing a hand over the leaping pulse in her throat as she walked to the kitchen window to peer down at the street.

You’ve killed men before, she reminded herself.How could you be afraid of something as simple as dinner?

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