Page 9 of It's in the Contract
Dad laughs. “What’s going on with you, Callie Berry? How did the first day of school go?”
A sigh wants to escape my lips, but I hold it in. “Fine.” Butter snores from my lap.
“Details, yo.”
I roll my eyes. “Dad.”
His breathing picks up along with his pace. “Please. I want to hear everything.”
“School is . . . okay.” I pick up the bottle of rose perfume that so epically failed me today. My hand hovers over the trash can. “Cheer practice was good. I’ve been posting on social media, trying to grow my follower count. I’m worrying about my grades already. You know, the usual.” I bite my lower lip, wondering if I’ve let the stress bleed too much into my voice. I don’t want to worry my dad. He’s living his dream.
“That’s a lot of pressure, sweetie.” Dad’s expression turns pitying. “You know you don’t have to be the social media queen on top of everything else you do, right? Just because you’re my daughter?—”
I can’t bring myself to throw the perfume away. It was a birthday gift from Suzy. I set the bottle back into its place in my collection, but I doubt I’ll be wearing it anytime soon. “I know, Dad. I know.” I shouldn’t complain about the attention I get from being Ben Carter’s daughter, even though the constant posting, interacting, and updating is a ton of work. And the comparison factor totally sucks.
Dad slows to a walk. “Hang on a sec.” He flips the phone camera around, and I get a view of the ocean at dusk. The waves crash and spray on a smooth expanse of sand. I wish I could be there with him and forget everything.
“Cal, just be sure you don’t take on too much. It’s easy to get lost in what other people think about you instead of prioritizing what you think about yourself.”
I frown. Who is Dad, climbing to the top of the acting ladder, to tell me about worrying about what other people think? “Sure, Dad. Thanks.”
“I love you, Callie.”
“Love you.” I hang up, and my stomach feels even more knotted than it did before. “Gahhhh!” I let out a growl of frustration, and Butter jumps awake.
I ease her off my lap, and she flops onto the floor. If I can’t solve my problems, I’ll bake.
The cookiedough plops onto the pan with a satisfying thud. The dough is my favorite browned butter chocolate chip, and I can’t help but sneak a spoonful. I close my eyes and savor the bite. Browning the butter takes extra effort, but it makes the cookies taste like caramel and brings out all the salty-sweet notes that make a chocolate chip cookie amazing.
Luckily, Miss Browned Butter Squishy Face Carter the pug moved her nap to my bed. If she was here, she would be begging me for a spoonful of dough (minus the chocolate, of course). I can never resist her big brown eyes and droopy cheeks.
I add more Ghirardelli 60% dark chocolate chips to the bowl. We wouldn’t have the ingredients for real, sugary, buttery cookies if I didn’t go out of my way to buy them. Most of what fills the pantry are protein powders, quinoa, and dried goji berries.
The kitchen is cool and spacious, and a light Seattle rain patters on the windowpanes. My parents have outfitted the room with every modern cooking convenience—stand mixers, a double oven, and a gas stove. There’s even a pasta maker taking up space on the back corner of the counter that I don’t think anyone has ever used. A vase of yellow daffodils sits next to thesink, a gift from my dad to my mom before he left on his audition trip.
I spoon another dough ball onto the baking sheet, and my phone buzzes in my pocket. I suck chocolate off of my fingers and answer the call.
“Callie!”
“Hey, Suze.” I scoop up another ball of cookie dough and barely restrain myself from eating it.
“What are you doing?” She gets right to the point in a clipped tone, but it’s just her way.
I preheat the oven to convection 325 degrees F before I go back to scooping dough. I don’t know why I always make a dozen cookies. It’s not like either of my parents are going to eat them—Dad’s often gone and Mom’s too much of a health nut.
“Baking cookies.”
“I’m so there.” Suzy hangs up.
Suzy won’t care if I’m in my sweats and ratty BTS t-shirt, so I don’t bother to change.
She arrives just as the cookies are coming out of the oven. Suzy doesn’t even knock, she just opens the front door and barges into the kitchen.
“What have you done?” Suzy sits down on a barstool. I note with no small amount of joy that she is also wearing sweats—neon yellow—and her BTS t-shirt that matches mine. Her hair is still tied up in a long ponytail with dark blue ribbon she wore to school.
“Browned butter chocolate chip,” I say.
“Marry me.”
