Page 104 of It's in the Contract
My heart flutters. Before I can respond, another text from Zeke shows up.
When can I see you today?
Soon,I text back.PSLs at our favorite place?
Zeke texts back a huge smiley face emoji and a thumbs up.
I throw on some clothes and rush down the stairs. I want to see Zeke, and maybe I’ll invite Suzy, too, but I need to have a long conversation with my parents first.
The kitchen is empty.I check the time and realize that Mom is teaching her Saturday morning kickboxing class. Dad’s voice blares from his bedroom, belting old 70s songs, and I hear the shower running. The smile that seems to be permanently etched onto my face today widens. He’s home, finally! The sounds of Def Leppard being sung by a middle-aged, tone-deaf man assault my ears, but I still can’t stop smiling.
I make egg white omelets (that end up being scrambled eggs) and gluten-free toast. I even squeeze a couple of oranges into two wine glasses. I set the table, and then I wait.
The shower is still running. And Mom’s still not home.
“C’mon, Mom and Dad.” I sit at the table, hands clasped before me. I think about the conversation ahead, and nerves churn in my stomach. Mom is going to be irate about last night, but we have to talk. No more pushing things away and pretending everything’s fine.
Rather than just sit and wait, I decide to bake something. There’s a recipe for pumpkin chocolate chip scones that I’ve been dying to try.
I ask Alexa to shuffle my BTS playlist, and I dig through the pantry until I find my recently acquired—and hidden—stash of baking supplies. I pull out flour, sugar, a can of pumpkin puree, dark chocolate chips, and warm spices. Butter plops down the stairs and waddles across the kitchen floor to lick my ankles.
I’m putting the scones into the oven—cute orange triangles with dark chocolate chunks; I even made them mini because,portion control—when the shower turns off, and the door to the garage opens.
Mom comes into the kitchen. She stops when she sees the breakfast laid out on the table, now cold. I glance from her, to the food, to the floury spots on the kitchen counter that I haven’t had time to wipe off yet. I take a deep breath and brace myself. This is going to be hard, but maybe that’s okay.
Mom smiles. “Wow, Callie. This looks lovely.”
I blink, surprised. “Scrambled egg whites,” I say sheepishly. “I can’t make an omelet like you can.”
Mom puts her gym bag on the floor and sits down at the table. I take a seat across from her, the tension between us palpable. I open my mouth, but then I close it again, unsure what to say. Mom picks up her fork.
Dad emerges from the bedroom humming “More than a Feeling,” dressed in gray sweat pants and a navy blue V-neck shirt.
“What is this?” he says. “My two favorite girls made me breakfast?”
“This was all Callie,” Mom says.
“Dad!” I stand and run across the kitchen to give him a hug. “I’m so glad you’re home.”
Dad kisses the top of my head. “It’s only for the weekend. I’ve got to fly back on Monday for more filming.”
We sit down to eat, and Butter heads to the couch for a nap. Things are quiet for a moment besides forks scraping plates. I wonder if Mom’s going to say anything about the dance or sweep it under the rug and pretend like everything’s fine. Normally I would follow her lead, but this time, I want to talk about things, even if it’s uncomfortable. I chew my cold eggs and debate how to bring the subject up.
“So how was the dance, my ladies?” Dad asks. He takes a sip of orange juice.
“Surprisingly, it was so much fun,” I say between bites. “The best dance ever. But—” The timer on the oven dings.
“What’s in the oven?” Mom asks, a small frown on her face. Maybe I shouldn’t have made the scones. I can’t even imagine how many calories are in one with all that chocolate and butter.
I grab a hot pad and pull the tray out of the oven. I gently press on a scone, sparkling with coarse sugar. They’re hot but firm. Done. “Umm. I baked scones?”
Mom frowns and takes another bite of her eggs. “Are they for someone else?”
“No.” I take a deep breath and set the baking sheet on a hot pad on the table. Mom chews slowly, watching me, but Dad gives me a subtle thumbs up.
I take a deep breath. “I made them because I like to bake. I . . . I might even want it to be my career. I don’t know if I’ll go to culinary school and be a pastry chef or maybe open my own business one day, but I want this. It makes me happy, and I’m—I’m really good at it.”
Mom’s eyes widen, but Dad smiles. “Good for you, sweetheart. That plan sounds awesome. I’ll have one of those.” Dad reaches for a hot scone, blows, and takes a bite. His eyes close. I watch for his reaction, even though Mom is still frowning. “Oh, Callie. These are divine.”
