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“Follow the instructions exactly,” she warns, tearing out a sheet of paper.
“How hard can mac and cheese be?”
Mom gives me a look that doesn’t fill me with confidence. “Maybe call if you get stuck.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“If you say so, son.”
Once I have the chicken pot pie, recipe and a container of something Mom insists is “just in case,” I say goodbye and head toward the truck with Aspen.
On the way home, I pray I don’t fuck up the mac and cheese.
* * *
“Is Blair hurt bad?” Aspen asks from the back seat.
I look at her through the rearview mirror. I told her Blair was at the hospital last night, but I didn’t explain what happened. No six-year-old needs to know the details.
“She’s sore, Pen, but she’s going to be okay.”
Aspen turns toward the window and goes quiet for a moment. I can practically see the questions forming inside her head.
“Did someone hurt her?”
My breath catches. There’s no point lying to her. Aspen always knows when I’m not telling her the truth.
“Yes, baby girl. Someone did,” I answer carefully. “But he’s gone now, and Blair is safe.”
She thinks about that for another moment before nodding. “Then we should get her cake too.”
My little girl. So innocent, but not at all naïve.
“Yeah, Penny.” I smile at her in the mirror. “We’ll get her cake.”
“Daddy?”
“Yes, Pen?”
“Will Blair stay with us forever?”
The question hits me straight in the chest.
“I hope so.”
I really fucking hope so.
* * *
I’ve been making this mac and cheese for an hour.
The recipe Mom gave me says it should take fifteen minutes to assemble, but I’ve already stopped and started again three fucking times. There’s cheese everywhere, the first batch of sauce turned into something resembling wet cement, and Aspen keeps asking why it isn’t working.
“Maybe Nana should’ve made it,” she suggests, studying the cheese sauce currently splattered across my shirt.
“Yeah, maybe.” I dip a spoon into the latest batch and blow on it before holding it out to her. “Try this.”
Aspen opens her mouth and tastes it. Her eyes widen.
