Page 56 of Unravel Me

“And they will love you. Seriously, don’t worry about it. If anything, I should be worried they’ll scare you off.”

I cross my arms across my chest, chewing my lip, and Rhett drapes his arms around my neck, stooping down to meet my darting gaze.

“Don’t get me wrong, the food will be good. My mom puts farm to table restaurants to shame. But please, don’t stress it. Okay?” I love the way his accent grows thick when he talks about his mom, and I lean back to get a better look at him. "We can stop at the store and grab something to bring.”

“We can’t just buy something from the grocery store, Rhett!” I gasp, truly appalled at the suggestion.

“It’s fine, I assure you.” He waves, clearly having fun with my dramatics.

“You just told me your mom is an amazing cook. Let me at least bake something to bring.”

“No one is expecting that.”

“I don’t care, I refuse to show up with store-bought potato salad like a bachelor.” I pause, glancing at Rhett who feigns offense. He puts a hand to his chest, and I shake my head, pulling up a recipe on my phone and continue, “No offense, but you have me now. Things are changing, darlin’.” I mock him and Rhett secedes. “Mind going to the store with me? I need to get a few things. Unless you have lavender essence and fine almond flour?”

“I’ll grab my keys.” Rhett reaches for them and hooks me in to kiss my temple.

“Thought so,” I reply quietly, silently going over the recipe in my head. I need these cookies to come out perfect. Nothing less will do.

The timer for the macaron's beeps, and I have to side-step over Mabel, who’s inconveniently planted herself under my feet in this little kitchen.

Two dozen lavender macaron shells come out perfectly, and as I pipe the zesty lemon filling, a lightness fills my bones. A slight breeze fills the kitchen from the open window over the sink, and I finish the last cookie.

“I’m seriously impressed with myself right now.” I step back admiring my work, talking to Mabel, my only audience. The last time I made these was two years ago when Jackson was in his last year of grad school. He was always busy, leaving me to be by myself after work, so I started baking more and more. One particular night, the last time I ever attempted to make this complicated French cookie, everything figuratively crumbled. He was stressed because of finals but unfortunately, I caught the brunt of that stress. Jackson came home late from studying at the library, and I was really excited to see him, thinking this would be a sweet gesture. Our apartment smelled like a bakery, with plated cookies and tea. I set up the little dining space, inviting him to unwind with me, to merely take ten minutes and catch up; a rarity in our relationship.

He barely had made eye contact with me as he came in, agitation coating his features as he threw his backpack onto the sofa without a care.

“I can’t Audrey, I have class in the morning.” He didn’t even look at me, but I bit back my tears, and cleared my throat, attempting again; thinking maybe he simply needed me to show him it was okay to take a break, but I was wrong. So, so wrong.

“Babe, please sit with me for a few minutes, it won’t kill you,” I encouraged, kissing his cheek, searching his face until his tired red eyes met mine.

“Audrey, when will you grow up? You have work in the morning, I have school, and now the kitchen is a fucking mess. This little hobby of yours is getting out of control.” Hostility laced every word.

Everything went silent between us and a cloud settled around me as he pushed past, straight into our bedroom, closing the door with force. That night I ended up throwing the entire batch away, put my favorite new cookbook back on the shelf and cleaned up the kitchen in complete silence, not making a sound as tears spilled down my cheeks.

He broke my heart that night, and I think a little part of me knew then he’d never understand me, never see me for me. But I took his words to heart and didn’t bake again for a very long time.

My throat is tight, thinking about that night, until Mabel paws my foot, begging me for a cookie. I toss her one of her homemade treats instead and gently stack the cookies in a container, and place them in the refrigerator. The front of my new apron— the one I bought at the store today— is dirty with powdered sugar and butter, but it brings a smile to my face. I start to unlace the tie as the back door opens. In steps Rhett, sweat glistening on his face as he wiped a fine film of saw dust off his hands onto his jeans.

“Holy shit, I feel like I just walked into The Great British Baking Show tent.”

My mouth falls open at the mention of my favorite show. “You know that show?”

“I was forced to watch it against my will. My nieces love it.”

I laugh, picturing him watching it with his nieces.

“Hey, you have a little flour in your hair.” Rhett motions, and I touch my head, as if I could feel flour.

“No, I don—”

But he doesn’t let me finish before taking a pinch of flour from the open bag and flicking it onto my head. My mouth falls open, a dramatic gasp leaving my mouth.

“Rhett, you did not!”

He winks cockily at me, and this time, I grab the leftover lemon filling, squeezing it onto his head before he can dodge me. We both stand in shock as it drips onto his shoulder. He doesn’t flinch, which only makes my heart race fast. My eyes darted between his face and his hand creeping towards the open egg carton on the counter.

“You…wouldn’t…dare…”