Page 45 of The Write Choice

I wait for what feels like forever for her to text me back. I’m able to fire up my computer and respond to a few emails before her text comes through. I brace myself before looking at it, expecting the worst.

Okay.

That’s it. That’s all it says. Either she’s pissed, or she’s in a better mood than I thought. Assuming the former, I send another apology text, but she responds, No worries. This is partly why we moved here, right?

Well, that’s not what I was expecting. She’s never this laid back about a visit from my parents. Maybe this new situation is starting to relax her a little. I smile at the thought. This is truly what I wanted for her with this move. I wanted her to find some peace, maybe a group of people she could connect with on a deeper level than what she had in New York. I wanted her to find herself again.

A nagging little thought knocks on my brain. When we met, she was like this. Carefree and laid back. But when we met, she was relying on alcohol to make her that way. What if…

No. I shut the door on that thought immediately. That’s not Katie anymore.

I start to type a message about how cool she’s being, maybe hinting at this change in her. Then I delete it and start again a few times, but all of it feels like the way my mother might passively hint at something she wants to talk about but won’t do it outright. So, I finally just send, You’re amazing, Cat. Because she is, and that’s what she needs to hear right now.

She sends back a kiss emoji, which makes me chuckle. It feels like we’re more solid than we have been in months, and I’m so glad I didn’t send any of those earlier messages. Katie is fine. We’re fine.

But that’s the last piece of good news I get all day. Thalia is having trouble finding a good time to meet with the teachers. Jasper comes in about a minute before I’m about to break for lunch with an update about the junior architects who, in his estimation, are slacking. I try to brainstorm a few sketches of what these “educational spaces” might look like even though I’m not supposed to be designing. I’m doing my best with it, but it has been so long since I’ve been in a high school. And when I was, it was a stodgy private school where the most cutting-edge learning material was a collection of works by Alice Walker our librarian purchased which caused a subsequent uproar amongst the parents. I’m having trouble thinking of what these spaces should look like, to say the least.

Toward the end of the day, I almost beat my parents out the door so I can stop by the grocery store to grab food to make for dinner when the junior architects, Orlando and Marianne, come off the elevator giggling. Jasper shoots me a pointed look from across the room, then looks at his watch. I hadn’t realized they hadn’t come back from lunch. So, I pull them into my office to deal with that, which puts me well behind my original schedule.

My parents beat me to the house, because of course they do. Not only that, but my mom insists on baking cookies before dinner so they’re ready for dessert. When I finally get home, it looks like a cookie dough bomb went off in the kitchen. Katie’s face is slightly redder than it should be, which tells me my mom probably said something backhanded two seconds before I walked in. My dad is sitting at the kitchen table, holding a soda and probably wishing it were a beer, watching it all. His eyes are wide and his knuckles where they grip the glass are white. He seems to be the only thing in the kitchen not covered in cookie dough.

“Hi, honey,” Katie says through gritted teeth as soon as I walk through the door.

That’s less than ideal. She only ever calls me “honey” when she’s pissed.

I drop the grocery bags on the floor next to the stove, since every available counter space is either covered in cookie dough or trays of cookies that are waiting for the oven. I kiss Katie on the cheek. She’s holding her dough-covered hands out in front of her, trying not to touch anything. I, however, have to resist the urge to lick the dough off her fingers.

Cool it, Conley, I chastise myself. This is a disaster.

“I got hamburgers,” I announce.

Dad perks up, but Mom wrinkles her nose. “Hamburgers?” she asks.

“Best I could do on short notice.” I smile pointedly. She’s not the only one who can be passive-aggressive.

“Your mom loves hamburgers. Don’t you, Maria?” Dad asks deliberately. Mom shrugs, which is probably the best I’ll get from her.

“I. Don’t. Want. Hamburgers,” Christine wails, each word punctuated to a crescendo. “I. Want. Cookies.”

“We’ll have cookies after dinner, sweetie,” I say gently.

“No! Cookies now!” she insists.

“They’re not even baked yet,” I point out.

Katie presses her eyes closed and lets out a slow breath. “It’s no use reasoning with a toddler.”

I take a mental step back and reassess. Christine is five seconds from falling apart. Katie might follow her from the look on her face. Mason is trying to wash his sticky hands in the sink. My mom is puzzling over the thermometer on the oven. My dad is sitting unhelpfully off to the side, as usual.

Time for damage control. Step one: deal with the toddler. “Okay, Christine,” I say. “You can have cookies as soon as they’re done, but you have to wash up first.” I note the cookie dough sticking to patches of her blonde hair. Step two: get Katie out of here for a few minutes. “Katie, why don’t you take Christine upstairs for a quick bath?”

Katie shoots me a grateful look as she lifts Christine from her underarms and swoops her to the bathroom upstairs. I give myself a moment to celebrate that success. Then, I clap my hands once. “Mom, Katie, and Christine baked, so Dad, Mason, and I will clean up the kitchen.”

“I baked, too,” Mason protests.

“Yeah, but this is a disaster. Grab a rag, buddy.”

He does, albeit begrudgingly. My dad also springs into action as my mom pops two trays of cookies into the oven, then starts washing her hands and arms like a doctor prepping for surgery.