Page 21 of Levi Bailey has Butterflies

But that isn’t what he’s asking and the sooner I answer, the sooner I can sleep. Doesn’t he want to rest next to me? Maybe I should invite him to stay.

“Is this your house? Please tell me we didn’t just break and enter.”

Oh right. My house. “This is Uncle Bob’s.” I reach out a hand—it’s my invitation for him to wrap me up in his arms again. But I guess it doesn’t translate. Because Levi doesn’t lie next to me or wrap his strong, breezy-smelling arms about me.

“Uncle—that’s right.” His voice is louder when he says, “Mer, I’m leaving the doctor’s notes on this table. Make sure you take Tylenol first thing in the morning.”

My eyes dip closed, and when I get the strength to open them again, he’s next to the door, peering back at me, one hand on the exit—but his amber eyes on me.

10

Meredith

By day three, I am bored to death. My head still hurts, but that’s what I get for catching myself with my head instead of my hands. Other than a headache, though, I’m doing well. My arm is healing and my head is too. In three days, I go back to get my stitches removed.

I haven’t heard from Levi, but it’s not like I have his number. My bike is still at the shop. But I can’t remember if number swapping was involved while we waited in the ER. Well, not swapping, I definitely don’t have his number. I’ve checked—twice.

Then again, he may have mine. I’m pretty sure it’s on the paperwork I filled out at the shop when I bought my bike.

My forty-eight-hour restrictions are over. So, I can read, but I’m feeling too antsy to sit still that long. I can watch TV, but I don’t want to. I watched TV for years. I’m finding I like real people much better than fictional characters.

So… today, I’m going to bake cookies for the first time. I owe Levi a batch, and I’m going to get my bike back. And maybe see if I can sweet talk another lesson out of Levi.

I am not afraid of riding a bike. Even after an emergency room visit and stitches to the head. Uncle Bob says I have a great story to tell. And now that it’s over and done, it wasn’t something so bad that I’m willing to give up. I don’t want to stop trying.

I pull up the recipe Nikki chose for me. Why not? It looks as good as any of them. I make a list and walk to the grocery store to purchase all the ingredients I’ll need. Uncle Bob has zero cookie making supplies in this house. Not even baking flour.

I know the Bike-A-Lot doesn’t close for hours, not until six, but after shopping, I come home only to mess up the dough of my first batch and burn my second batch. I am unsure if I will make it to the shop with a decent plate of cookies by six o’clock.

“Third time’s the charm!” I spout while shoving yet another batch ofeasyhomemade chocolate chip cookies into the oven. It’s set at three hundred and fifty degrees. I’ve sprayed my pan with cooking spray. I’ve mixed but not over-mixed. Is that even a thing? The recipe says it is. And I’m sick to death of the sight of the woman on this website, holding her perfect cookies up for the world to see. Yes—the third time better be the charm.

Uncle Bob is currently in the backyard typing in a lawn chair. He couldn’t stand the burnt smell anymore. Every window in this house is open, and I have high hopes that this batch is going to be the one. I am going to come out of this a successful, and maybe even a revered, baker!

Okay—that may be a little much. Let’s just try one cookie before we start talking about awards.

Ten minutes later, I’m pretty sure Icouldbe winning an award. In fact, I don’t dislike that cookie model at all. I get it now. I want my picture with these babies too. If cookies were models, mine would be on the runway. They are beauts!

They’ve passed the looks test with flying colors. Time for the taste test.

I pick one up—one that isn’t quite perfectly round. I’m saving all the perfect ones for Levi. The warmth of this supermodel cookie spreads over my fingers. Chocolate oozes on my palm and thumb in the most delightful way. I take a bite—my teeth skating through the cookie’s crust and the smoothness of the insides. It’s warm and gooey as I split the hot flesh in two.

That’s it. I’ve decided. I will be an award-winning baker. I want to savor this moment, the texture, the taste, the sweetness. But then…huh.

Salt.

That’sa lotof salt.

I didnotpull a Marsha Brady and use salt rather than sugar. I didn’t! I know I didn’t.

I checked.

I did add the spoonful of salt—just like it called for. Maybe there’s a special type of baking salt I should have used. Even asking the question in my head makes me feel a little bit useless.

No awards for me.

I smack my lips. They aren’t terrible. But they aren’t great either.

So much salt.

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