Total pages in book: 167
Estimated words: 164557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 823(@200wpm)___ 658(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 164557 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 823(@200wpm)___ 658(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
Yeah.
I’m definitely catching feelings for her.
This isn’t good.
At all.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHARLOTTE
Nonnegotiable
OUR KITCHEN SMELLS LIKE CINNAMON AND SUGAR. IT’S MY FAVORITE combination in the whole entire world, and the familiar scent of cookies baking in the oven wraps around me like a warm blanket. Mom and I have been at it for hours, our hands dusted with flour, the counter cluttered with cookie cutters and bowls of frosting. It’s one of those moments that feels like it’s out of time, like nothing else in the world matters but the dough beneath my hands and the steady rhythm of Mom’s humming beside me.
This has always been our tradition, a moment of peace amid the usual holiday chaos, but the irony of it is that neither of us are very good bakers. In fact, we sort of suck. Ava’s Christmas cookies taste a hell of a lot better. Even Dad produces superior gingerbread people.
Somehow, Mom and I always end up covered in flour, no matter how careful we are, and we’re officially banned from using the candy cane molds after the Great Penis Cookie Debacle five years ago.
When I was little, Mom tried incorporating Korean cookies into our holiday baking, but she made the mistake of explaining they used rice wine and were deep fried. Like a total brat, I threw a tantrum, because cookies “weren’t supposed to have rice in them.”
And then there was the Christmas they invited Daisy, my elementary school classmate, and her family for dinner thinking it would create a cultural connection, only to discover that Daisy’s family was even more American than ours. Her parents were second-generation Korean Americans who felt zero kinship to their parents’ homeland and didn’t care if Daisy did either. At least mine tried to keep me connected to the culture.
And I resisted it every step of the way.
“These snowflakes look a little sad, don’t they?” Mom teases, nudging me with her elbow as she reaches for another piece of dough.
I glance down at the cookies I’ve been cutting, realizing she’s right. The shapes are uneven, the edges ragged where my hands were shaking a little too much.
I force a smile, trying to keep things light. “Nah. They’re abstract. Very modern.”
She laughs.
“Hey, what were those Korean cookies you used to make when I was a kid?” I ask her.
“Hmm. I can’t remember what they were called, but your dad and brother loved them. Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know. Just thinking it might be nice to learn how to make them.”
Taking a breath, I gauge her reaction, but although she looks startled, she also seems pleased.
“Oh, that would be wonderful, honey. What a great idea. I’ll dig through my old recipe books later. Maybe we can grab some ingredients tomorrow.”
She smiles at me, and for a moment, it feels like everything’s okay. Like I’m just here with my mom, baking cookies for Christmas, and there’s nothing weighing down my chest.
But then the back door opens, and the illusion shatters. Cold air rushes into the kitchen, and with it comes Ava. The tension creeps in behind her like an unwelcome guest.
“Honey! You’re just in time,” Mom says, greeting her with a smile. Her brow furrows when she notices Ava is alone. “Where’s Ash? We thought he was coming with you.”
Ava shrugs out of her coat, hanging it by the door. “He had to work over the holidays, so he stayed in New York.”
Mom’s smile falters. “Oh, that’s too bad. We were really looking forward to meeting him.”
I focus on the cookies, trying to stay out of this conversation. Trying to keep the peace that’s been so fragile since I told Ava about Harrison. Like clockwork, she’s been texting me every few days about it, asking if I’d told our parents yet. So of course, this afternoon is no different. Mom steps out of the kitchen for a moment to check on the laundry, and as soon as she’s gone, Ava pounces.
“You’re going to tell them during the break, right?”
I don’t look up. I keep myself busy with the dough, pressing the cutter into it with more force than necessary. “I’ll tell them when I’m ready. Stop pressuring me.”
“Charlotte, come on. You’re being ridiculous. You can’t keep avoiding this. They deserve to know,” she scolds, crossing her arms like she’s the one who’s been wronged here.
“I know that,” I bite back, finally meeting her gaze. There’s a warning in my voice, but she’s not backing down. “It’s my decision, okay? I’ll tell them when I’m good and ready.”
“You can’t keep this a secret forever.”
“Oh my God, I know that,” I repeat, my irritation spilling over. “Ava. Seriously. Just back off, okay?”
“Whatever. I’m going to get my bag from the car.” She huffs, turning toward the door just as Mom reenters the kitchen, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing between her daughters.