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Me: Thanks again for last night and this morning. I’m sorry Nate was such a dick to you.
“Oops.”
I set my phone down to find Olive holding up a pair of dripping hands. The egg she was cracking drips down the front of the kitchen cabinet instead of in the bowl on the counter.
“Wash your hands,” I instruct my daughter before reaching under the sink for cleaning spray and paper towels. My phone buzzes on the counter where I left it and I sneak a glance while I wipe up the eggy mess.
Maggie: I like knowing you’re ok, Kel. And I really didn’t want to leave things between us like that, even though Nate didn’t exactly help the situation this morning.
Having Nate here hasn’t helped any situation. He’s staying at Greg and Jackie’s tonight since the electrician I broke down and called today can’t get out here for a couple days. Thankfully, Jackie is staying at the hotel by the hospital until Greg is released.
I spray and wipe up the mess on the floor and cabinet fronts. “Here you go, Pickle, you get to clean the counter. Then go grab another egg from the fridge.” I pass the bottle and paper towels over to her, snagging the bowl of dry ingredients before she can accidentally get cleaner in it.
I type out a response to Maggie while I supervise Olive.
Me: I’m sorry, I was so flustered I didn’t get to say goodbye properly. I feel like we probably still need to talk about some stuff, but this week is going to be rough.
Just thinking about everything I need to deal with this week gives me a headache. I don’t want to jump the gun, but the thought of having Maggie in my corner eases some of the stress eating away at my stomach lining.
Maggie: Stop apologizing. My week is also going to be insane with work. We’ll figure it out. And yes, we definitely need to talk about…stuff.
A shiver runs down my spine at her words and my stomach is back in knots. Why is it that the mention of having “a talk” always fills my stomach with dread? It doesn’t matter the circumstances.
Maggie: And don’t apologize for Nate—he’s a grown man and can apologize for himself.
I have to smile at that—I can just picture Maggie saying it with an adorable eye roll. Maybe even a tiny foot stamp or hip check.
“Do you think my cookies will help Grandpa Greg feel better?” Olive asks after successfully cracking the new egg into the bowl.
I take the bowl and position it under the stand mixer for her, while Olive drags her step stool over to the opposite side of the counter. “I’m sure it will. Remember, we can’t eat any tonight—we gotta save them for when Granny and Pop-Pop bring Grandpa Greg home from the hospital.” My parents already promised to drive Jackie and Greg back once he’s discharged. Their home is much closer to the hospital than the vineyard, and my dad’s Escalade has more legroom for Greg to ride comfortably in.
That leaves me and Olive to make up the welcoming committee, since Nate certainly won’t be.
“And I’m going to make an extra specially big one for Aunt Sydney.” Olive turns the mixer on low, drowning out the rest of her sentence. We stand shoulder to shoulder watching the eggs beat into the butter and sugar mix. I hold out the bowl of dry ingredients so Olive can add it in by the spoonful, the dough taking shape with each scoop. Next we add the chocolate chips, Olive stealing a few when she thinks I’m not looking.
Finally, we fall into our practiced cookie production line—me scooping out spoonfuls of dough and Olive rolling them into spheres with her hands before placing them carefully on the baking sheets. “Why are you making a special one for Aunt Sydney?” Olive and Sydney are close, but I can’t think of any particular reason for this attention. I’ve been waiting for Olive to mention Maggie again, but so far she hasn’t brought her up.
“Because she looked so sad at the hospital. I think she’s really sad that Grandpa Greg is hurt.” Olive presses one of the dough balls down, making an indentation on top.
“Oh.” I’m not sure how appropriate it is to tell my seven-year-old that her aunt looks sad because Nate was being an absolute dickwaffle to everyone, but especially Sydney. “I’m sure the cookie will help Aunt Sydney feel heaps better.”
“Can I put an ‘S’ on the top so she knows it’s hers? And so no one else can steal it?”
We proceed to roll out a thin ribbon of dough to mark Sydney’s cookie. Then Olive decides she needs to mark a special one for Greg too. It escalates from there until everyone except Nate has a designated cookie. When Olive excludes him from her list I’m tempted to remind her, but then I decide not to.
If he wanted to come home to a relationship with my kid, he should have bothered to ask about her once or twice, maybe tried to Facetime her on occasion. From the glances he kept shooting her way at the hospital, I already know he’s going to be bent out of shape about her lack of attention, but I’m done. Done being the bridge—the translator, the buffer, the whatever you want to call it—between my former best friend and the rest of the world.
By the time the cookies are finished, it’s Olive’s bedtime. We make sure she has her backpack ready for school the next day, complete with a double-check of the unicorn sparkle hat.
I stay in Olive’s room after she’s fallen asleep, my back aching dully as I sit against her wall. The books she’d read to me are scattered across her bed, but I don’t make a move to stand and collect them. The steady rhythm of my daughter’s breathing, the dark of the room, and the quiet outside wrap around me.
When June and I were still together, this used to be one of my favorite parts of the day. The moments of peace when I knew Olive was safe and cared for, my job for the day was done, and I could take a deep breath before going back out to June. I’d loved June, but she wasn’t restful. Not for me. There was always this feeling at the back of my mind that if I said or did the wrong thing one too many times she’d leave me.
And I’d been proven right in the end. After the months we’d spent separated because of the pandemic, things had never felt comfortable again. We’d both gotten used to being apart, and somehow could never make enough compromises to fit the puzzle pieces of our personalities back together. June hadn’t seemed to have any trouble fitting Shelby into her life, so I’ve always assumed it was more of a me problem than a June problem. But the more time I spend with Maggie, the more I’m convinced it was a mutual misfit, and June realized it first.
I pull my phone out from my pocket, the light bright in the dark of Olive’s room, and open my messages. The usual four threads are all at the top—my sister, June, my parents, and Jackie and Greg. A text from Nate, asking for his dad’s room number, sits below them. Maggie’s last message is pushed below Nate’s and for some reason that makes me mad.
Me: Can we find a time to see each other this week? I have Olive until after Thanksgiving, but once Greg is home from the hospital I could be free in the evenings?
