Page 22 of Levi Bailey has Butterflies

“Bob?” I walk out onto the porch, cookie in hand. Maybe they’re meant to taste this way. Maybe I only know what Chips Ahoy tastes like. Maybe I haven’t a clue what a homemade cookie should taste like! “Hey, Bob,” I say, stepping out onto the back porch. “I have a cookie for you.”

Uncle Bob squints in the sun and looks at the small dessert like it might be his long-lost enemy. “Hmm. One bite.”

“Okay. Here.” I hand over my little not-so-masterpiece confectionary and wait for his reaction.

“Here’s what you should know, Meredith. Cookies are not my thing.” He can see me watching him, waiting for his reaction.

He takes a bite—not a nibble, but a generous mouthful. He leaves teeth marks in the remainder of the cookie, and chocolate oozes from the bite and drips across his lips. Again, if we’re going on looks—my cookie is the clear winner. Even Pinterest, cookie-model girl has nothing on these babies.

“Well?”

“Hmm.Salty. I like it.”

I feel my brow furrow. “But is it supposed to be salty?”

“Beats me. Cindy’s were always too sweet. But I like salt.”

“Huh.” I drop my gaze to the half-eaten cookie in his hand. I’m not sure what that response means.

I bundle up the rest, convinced I won’t really know until someone else tries them. Maybe Levi’s niece will be at the shop. I’m certain she wouldn’t lie to me. Not that Bob did. But after thatglowingreview, I’m not sure I can trust his opinion, at least in the matter of chocolate chip cookies.

I take the long way and walk by the park, maybe Janice and Ralf will be there. I can offer them a cookie and get their opinion too. I don’t see the older couple, but I do recognize that blue hoodie. It’s two o’clock… on a Thursday. Shouldn’t she be in school?

“Nikki?”

My young friend starts at the mention of her name. Her long brown hair lays on either side of her shoulders. She’s been crying again. I didn’t ask the first time. I wasn’t sure it was my place—being strangers and all. But aren’t we friends now? Maybe not, maybe we’re still strangers, but she did ride my bike all around the park. We searched the internet for a recipe together. I feel like that qualifies us as more than strangers—at the very least. And, as more than a stranger, I can’t hold my tongue this time.

I plant myself on the bench next to her.

“Meredith?” she sniffs. “I thought you said you came here on Saturdays and Mondays.”

“And other days.” I shrug and open my Tupperware container.

Her brown eyes blink up to where hair meets my forehead. My stitches. “What’d you do to your head?”

I press two fingers just below my hairline, where four stitches are sewn into my scalp. “Fell off my bike.”

“Ouch.”

“Yep.” But more than the pain of falling and scraping myself up that night, I think about the way Levi wrapped me in his arms. He carried me inside—and while I was exhausted and out of it, I remember every second of it. The feel of him is seared into my brain. I should have forgotten—slight concussion and all—but by the grace of some higher power, I remember every glorious minute. At least, I think I do. “Cookie?”

She uses the sleeve of her hoodie to wipe beneath her nose. “You made them?”

“Yeah. But I’m not sure they taste right.” I reach in and hold a cookie out to her.

Nikki takes a bite, her pretty thin lips not smiling or grimacing. “Huh. They taste like you added sea salt potato chips.”

I clamp my teeth down on my bottom lip, still watching her. “Is that good?”

Now she does grimace. “Well, I don’t like sea salt. Can I see your recipe again?”

I pull out my phone and open my Pinterest board. “Here.”

She reads it over, but apparently, nothing looks too off on the recipe to her. “I don’t know.”

Which means, it’s me—not the recipe.

Blah. And I was so invested in winning that nonexistent baking award.

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