Page 71

Another word for the third base position.
SYDNEY
Sex. He wants sex from me. That’s all. Nothing else. No attachments.
That might not be so bad, right?
Said no one ever! Haven’t we learned anything from romantic comedies? Sex with no attachments does not work.
Fuck. Look at me, elbow-deep in meat.
Actually, literally, elbow deep in meat. I’m baking. For the first time in three weeks since Collin died, I’m in the kitchen baking a meal that wasn’t given to me or from a box.
And trying to make something from Joanna Gains cookbook.
Monday, while Cason’s at school and practice, I decide to cook for him. After some research, okay, texting with Ez that turns into him asking if he can use my minivan as the “team bus,” I get out of him that Cason loves Thanksgiving. It’s his favorite holiday. So I decide on Joanna’s “Friendsgiving” casserole. It’s basically Thanksgiving in a casserole dish with turkey, stuffing, and then on the side, you serve mashed potatoes, with gravy, green beans and cranberry sauce. On top of that, I decide to make him a lemon pie for dessert with homemade whip cream.
You should have stopped me somewhere in the middle of all that shit because halfway through this, I regret the decision—big time. I’m not a baker, and following directions isn’t my thing. Not only that, but Tatum has eaten most of the graham crackers and bread for the casserole and yelled at me twice, “More peetits.” She means peanuts. I swear. Why she’s screaming peetits is beyond me.
Stirring the chicken mixture into the pan of sautéed vegetables, I hand Tatum another graham cracker, thankful I bought three boxes of them. “They’re graham crackers. Not peanuts.”
She stares up at me, scowling, and then hands me the peanut butter jar. Oh.
Looking down at the jar and her face, I realize she’d been dipping them in there, and the jar is empty.
Reading through the recipe, I stir the chicken mixture and decide it’s missing something. I dig through the cupboard.
You should have added thyme, Joanna.
I dump that in there, stir, and realize how white it is.
Shit, that’s a lot of cream. What if he’s lactose intolerant? Let’s hope not.
And, finally, butter. Yes! You know it’s a good recipe when it calls for a cup of butter.
When I have it all mixed together, and in the dish, Sadie shows up having actually attended class this morning. “Smells good in here,” she notes, sitting at the island and eyeing the oven. “Did you cook?”
I nod nervously.
She laughs. “Oh, I see. Trying to make your new house guest feel welcome?”
My body slumps forward. “What the fuck am I doing?”
Her eyes land on the lemon pie cooling on the counter. “I don’t know, but can I take some of this?”
“Uh, yeah. No, wait. Later. I’ll put some in the fridge for you.”
“Why can’t I take some now?”
Taking the pie from the counter, I open the fridge and place it in there. “Because it has to cool in the fridge for a couple hours.”
Sadie leaves after spending some time with Tatum, and I’m nervously awaiting Cason to show up. Believe me, I’m keeping an eye on the camera to see when he pulls in. I left a note on his door that says “Come to the house” in hopes that he will.
I set a plate down on the table for Tatum with the casserole, knowing full well she won’t eat it but wanting to try before she turns into a chicken nugget and macaroni and cheese for brains.
“I don’t want that.” She pushes the plate away.
“It’s what’s for dinner.”