Page 68 of The Marriage Mistake

“Yes,” I mumbled, wiping a line of half-dried drool from my chin as I forced myself to sit up. What time was it?

“Sorry,” he said. “Go back to bed. I’ll call someone else.”

“No, it’s fine,” I said. “What’s up?”

“I’m tied up at work. I was hoping you could pick Darby up from school. She has basketball practice until five. I thought I’d make it in time, but someone smashed up half our fleet of company cars, and it’s a complete nightmare trying to figure out the insurance.”

“Holy crap. No problem. I’ll pick Darby up,” I said, and pulled my phone away from my ear. Just after four-thirty. I’d have to get up and go right away. “I’ll text you when we get home.”

“Thank you, Ember,” he said, and it sounded like he was thanking me for a much bigger favor than picking his daughter up from school. We hung up, I got ready, and I drove to the school.

Darby didn’t seem surprised to see me. She just said, “Hey,” and climbed into the passenger seat.

“How was practice?”

“Hard. We’re playing Eastridge High this week and Coach is stressed about it.”

“Rival school?”

She grunted, teenspeak for “yes.”

“Hungry?”

Another grunt. Double yes.

“I haven’t had time to prep dinner,” I said. “What are you in the mood for?”

“Mac and cheese.”

“Your dad’s tied up at work,” I said, turning in the direction of home. “He won’t be able to make it.”

“You know how to make mac and cheese, don’t you?” She glanced at me.

“Well, yes, but, you know. I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes.” Sometimes people were precious about who got to cook what. That was one of Jack’s three meals. I was already wedging myself into their family; I didn’t want to make it any more obvious that I didn’t belong here.

Darby looked at me like I was a moron. “It’s mac and cheese. He won’t care. He’ll just be glad there’s dinner already made.”

That did sound like Jack. I shook my head, wondering why I’d even been so worried about him being upset at me. I’d never felt the need to tiptoe around him, and I doubted a creamy pasta bake would change that. But after this morning, everything had changed. I wasn’t sure what the rules were in this new relationship. If it was a relationship.

Maybe picking up his daughter and making one of his signature meals in his own kitchen would be a step too far. Too much, too fast.

But the lady wanted mac and cheese, and even I, without a parental bone in my body, could tell Darby was on a high-speed train to Hangryville. I nodded. “Let’s stop at the store on the way home.”

I liked to use three cheeses in my mac and cheese. Gruyere, freshly shredded, the king of the melty cheeses. Mozzarella for stretch. Parmesan for sharpness. I also liked using cavatappi pasta, since the ridged surface, hollow center, and extra spirals trapped the sauce better than simple elbow pasta. I explained all this to Darby as she chopped veggies for a salad, then handed her the whisk as we made the roux for the cheese sauce.

She was a good student, especially when I’d fed her half a dozen crackers topped with cheese as an emergency hangry-prevention snack the moment we got in the door.

“Okay. A lot of people say to warm the milk before adding it to the roux, but I always felt it works best when it’s fridge-cold. Hot roux, cold milk. Dash it in there and whisk like you mean it. No lumps.”

Darby’s jaw set, and she looked just like her father. “No lumps,” she repeated, and poured in the milk. The whisk flew, spraying droplets of milk all over the stove. I yelped, laughing, and she managed to control her movements as a bright laugh fell from her lips.

We got the whole thing in the oven a short while later with the kitchen looking like a war zone. Darby crouched in front of the oven and watched our creation for a few moments. “How long?” she asked.

“Twenty or twenty-five minutes,” I said. “Let’s get the dishes done. Or would you rather do your piano practice while I clean up?”

“Dishes,” Darby replied without hesitation. She moved to the sink and started scrubbing.

I worked on drying things as she handed them to me, putting them away one by one. The kitchen was familiar now, and I didn’t have to ask where anything went. It felt homier than my kitchen at home, more comfortable. Most of the dishes were mismatched, like they’d been inherited and collected from various sources. A lifetime of history and connection right there in a stack of ceramic dishes.