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It’s a text from my sister.
Astrid: Tell me two nice things about Miles because at the moment I can’t think of even one thing I like about him.
I laugh and reach for my phone. It’s just after three p.m. in Portland. The time and the mention of Miles means that she just finished a physical therapy session.
Astrid adores Miles. He’s been her PT since day one in the hospital after her injury, and they’re best friends.
He’s hilarious. He’s helped you recover. He puts up with your sassy shit. There, that’s three.
Where I have to be composed and always polished, Astrid is feisty and speaks her mind. Especially since the fall. The fall that happened from the uneven bars in the middle of her routine during the qualifying round for the Olympics. She was in the lead. She was absolutely going to make the team. Everyone believed she was on her way to the gold.
And then suddenly, she was lying on the floor. And there was a stretcher. And an emergency room. And surgery.
Now she moves a little slower, and she has pain and it’s frustrating for her. It also kills me a little every time I notice it.
It’s whyIlove Miles. He helps her. He coaches her. He doesn’t let her frustration and attitude get to him. He keeps her going.
Omg, don’t ever tell him you think he’s hilarious. You will get stupid jokes and memes and GIFs from him for the rest of your life.
I laugh.
Thanks for the warning.
So what are you doing right now? Are you in bed yet?
It’s just after eleven, but she knows I’m a night owl. We often text at this time of day—late for me, mid-afternoon for her.
I look down at the six gigantic cookies I just pulled out of the oven in the deserted palace kitchen.
The six gigantic cookies that will join the other six gigantic cookies that are cooling on the counter. Which will join the othertwelvegigantic cookies I’ve already decorated.
Just one of these cookies is equivalent in size to three regular cookies.
But I’ve made two dozen.
And the finished ones absolutely look like they were frosted and decorated by someone who has never frosted or decorated a cookie before in her life.
Because that’s exactly what’s happened here.
But it’s fine. It’s completely fine.
It’s probably fine.
My sister isn’t going to believe what I’m doing, so I snap a photo and send it along with,baking cookies.
I look at the cookies as I await her response.
Yes, this is fine.
Probably.
Who is this and why do you have my sister’s phone? And how do you know Miles? Because hilarious is stretching it, but you’re right about him putting up with my shit.
I grin, feeling a few of the butterflies in my stomach over the cookies calm a little.
I didn’t make the dough or frosting. They were shipped here. I just followed the directions.
I can tell you’re at the palace. Why the hell would you be making your own cookies when you’re there?