Page 85 of Cooking Up My Comeback
And watching her skip over to the dog treat jar, her dress sparkling in the afternoon light streaming through Hazel’s windows, I think she might be right.Maybe this pieismagical. Maybe this whole day is magical.
Maybe Christmas is just another word for finding yourself exactly where you belong, surrounded by the people who see your beautiful chaos and decide they want to be part of it.
My phone buzzes again.
Brett: On my way. Can’t wait to try that legendary pie.
I look around the kitchen—at Tally carefully arranging the final slices, at Ellen negotiating treat distribution with Scout, at Mason’s elaborate Lego city growing under the kitchen island, at Crew and Kira still deep in their ribbon physics experiment. At Hazel and Jack stealing moments between the chaos, at this house full of laughter and love and the kind of joy that doesn’t ask permission before it settles into your bones.
But underneath the warmth, there’s still that flutter of uncertainty. Because Brett coming here, wanting to be part of our Christmas chaos—that feels significant in ways I’m not sure I’m ready to handle. He could take one look at our beautiful mess and decide it’s too much. What if he’s just being polite about the pie and coffee?
Am I reading too much into text messages again?
Stop it,I tell myself.Stop looking for reasons to doubt good things.
But old habits die hard, especially when those habits kept you safe for so long.
“Mom?” Tally appears at my elbow. “You okay? You got that worry-face thing happening.”
“Just thinking.”
“About Brett?”
I should probably be more concerned that my seventeen-year-old can read me so easily, but instead I’m grateful. “Maybe.”
“He’s going to love the pie. And if he doesn’t, he’s not worthy of our family secret recipes anyway.”
I laugh despite myself. “Very practical.”
“I learned from the best.” She bumps my shoulder with hers. “Besides, anyone who shows up on Christmas day clearly wants to be here. That’s not nothing, Mom.”
And she’s right. Brett choosing to spend part of his Christmas with us—thatisn’tnothing. Even if I don’t know exactly what it is yet.
Yeah. I think I’m ready for whatever comes next.
Even if it includes a man who shows up on Christmas day with coffee and a smile that makes me believe in possibility again.
TWENTY
BRETT
Standing on Hazel’s front porch with a bag of gifts, a bottle of wine, and butterflies doing acrobatics in my stomach, I take a deep breath. Don’t drop anything, I tell myself. Especially not your dignity.
The door swings open, and the house smells of cinnamon and cloves and home.
“You’re late, Build-It Man!” Mason announces. He’s wearing safety goggles that are way too big for his little face and a colander balanced on his head like a crown. “We already started the Christmas dinner construction!”
I love his silly nickname for me. Makes me sound like a superhero instead of a guy who sometimes forgets to match his socks.
Amber appears behind him, dark hair twisted up in amessy bun, wearing an apron that saysKiss the Cook. My chest does something complicated.
“Construction?” I ask, stepping inside.
“Very serious operation,” Mason explains, adjusting his goggles with the gravity of a person defusing a bomb. “I’m the professional helper now.”
“He’s been helping all afternoon,” Amber says, laughing. “The safety equipment was non-negotiable.”
Smart kid.
