Page 31

JACK

“Aside from vegan butter, most margarines and oils work as butter substitutes. You can even use applesauce, mashed bananas, or pumpkin puree, depending on the recipe,” Rumi explains as she pours flour, sugar, and brown sugar into a mixing bowl.

With Evee in my arms, I watch her mom work and learn more about her—two of my new favorite pastimes. I opted to hold Evee as Rumi took the prepping process for our cookies—something I would have probably done anyway, even if she did have a high chair to sit in right now.

After I warmed up the dinner Rumi brought over, I realized that I didn’t have somewhere for Evee to sit.

We ended up having her sit on the counter between us as she ate the little pieces of meat and french fries that Rumi cut up for her—explaining that she does something called baby-led weaning for Evee, having started when she was seven months old.

I didn’t realize how much stuff you need for a baby, but I’m making mental notes as the night goes on—having added a high chair, a play mat with extra toys she can keep here, extra diapers and wipes as well as a place Rumi can change Evee without having to do it on my small bathroom counter, and something called a pack-and-play that I looked up when I Googled where babies sleep when they’re not at home.

I already feel like I’ve learned so much, not only about how to properly care for a baby or vegan substitutes for baking, but about Rumi too.

“What about milk?” I ask, wanting to learn as much as I can about Rumi’s diet. I’m standing next to her, leaning back on my kitchen counter as she pours some vanilla extract into the bowl of batter.

“Cookie recipes don’t usually need milk, but for other recipes you can substitute soy, coconut, oat, or any nut milk,” she answers.

“I’ve perfected a recipe that doesn’t need any egg substitutes either.

” She rips open the bag of chocolate chips—we checked the ingredients when I pulled them out, and I luckily got a brand that was vegan.

“You need a measuring cup for those?” I ask, grabbing the one next to me to hand to her.

“Nope,” she says, popping the “p” sound and pouring the whole bag in the batter.

Rumi begins folding the chocolate chips into the batter—or should I say, the batter into the chocolate chips.

“It’s probably too late to say this, but I’m not the biggest chocolate fan.”

She freezes, turning to look up at me as if I just told her I killed the person who invented chocolate rather than tell her I didn’t like it. “You’re joking.” Looking down at the bowl, I start to worry that she’s going to start apologizing and pick out the chocolate chips by hand.

I’ve learned a lot about my new friend tonight, and one of those things is she doesn’t just apologize because she got used to doing it when she didn’t have to.

Someone taught her to.

Whether that’s her asshole of a dad who her asshole mom left her with or her asshole of an ex-boyfriend who made her think the way she ate was stupid.

Someone taught her that everything is her fault.

Rumi looks back up at me. The light from the setting sun through my windows makes flecks of gold and amber dance in her irises, like fire flickering beneath the surface of a deep lake, the soft glow casting warm shadows around the edges.

It’s like the sky itself has settled inside her gaze.

“I was going to apologize,” she starts, “but I can’t.”

Good, I think to myself.

“Who doesn’t like chocolate?” she mocks, her tone playful.

“Then it’s probably also not a good time to tell you that I actually don’t really like any sweets.” I can’t help but push her just a little bit more. It’s fun to tease her—to see her cheeks blush, her teeth bite down on her bottom lip, her full lips pout.

I’ve seen a few different sides of Rumi in the short time I’ve known her, still keeping to myself about the way our paths crossed last year. I’ve seen her shy and timid, defiant and stubborn, but I think I like this playful side of her best.

Rumi throws her hands up in the air, and it makes Evee do the same in my arms, giggling as she continues to watch her mom with me. “What happened to the whole ‘I take my cookies very seriously’ when you broke into my house?”

“I did not break in,” I argue, fighting to keep the smile off my face.

She ignores me. “And now you’re telling me I’m just using your kitchen for you to watch me make cookies you’re not even going to eat?”

I shrug my shoulders. “I’ll have a bite of one.”

She lets out a groan. “You know what?” I raise a brow only for her to poke my chest with her pointer finger. “You can finish these cookies while I hold her.” She holds her arms out for Evee. “You probably need a break anyway. I know she can get heavy after a while.”

I turn away from her, pulling Evee closer to me.

“I’m going to pretend you did not just imply that I am not strong enough to hold this 25-pound baby for half an hour.

” Since my house isn’t baby proofed—another thing I had to stop Rumi from apologizing for, as if it’s her fault that my house doesn’t have all the necessary things for a one-year-old—holding Evee is the least I can do, so we can keep an eye on her.

But by the looks of it, we might have just broken Rumi’s habit of perpetually apologizing.

Rumi rolls her eyes at me. “Relax, firefighter. No one is insulting your strength. I’m sure you’re very proud of your big ol’ muscles.

” She’s making fun of me, but I see the way her eyes roam to my arms, my long-sleeves rolled up exposing my forearms. I wish I had opted for a short-sleeved shirt today, loving the hungry way her eyes look at me now and when I first opened the front door tonight.

“Damn right,” I say, switching Evee from one arm to the other. “I could hold both of you all night without even breaking a sweat.”

“With how much you apparently hit the gym, I would hope so,” she teases, reaching for Evee again. This time, I relent, passing her daughter to her, even though my arms feel like a part of them is missing the second she’s gone.

“Are you one of those metalheads that listens to that screaming music while you lift weights?” she asks as I wash my hands under the sink, switching spots with Rumi and taking over the batter.

“Do I seem like the type?” I ask while I finish folding in her insane amount of chocolate chips.

She eyes me up and down. “I could see it.”

“Then, sure. Let’s go with that.” I lean down to grab some parchment paper, pulling out enough to line the tray I set out earlier.

Rumi switches Evee from one hip to the other. “That doesn’t sound convincing. Don’t tell me you’re one of those psychopaths who doesn’t listen to music at the gym. I’m still not over that you don’t like sweets.”

“I liked the blueberry muffin you sent me home with after I fixed your door,” I say, grabbing some cookie dough and rolling it in my hand to place on the tray. “I finished the whole thing.”

Her jaw drops, but the corners of her lips are curved. “Oh my gosh, you are. How can you not listen to music while you work out?” She looks at Evee, grabbing her little hand and bouncing her in her arms. “Did you hear that, lovebug? Our new friend hates chocolate and music.”

“I don’t hate music, but I don’t listen to hard rock or screamo when I lift either,” I explain, suddenly feeling a little embarrassed. “I listen to—” I pause before finishing, “rap.”

She cocks her head, her eyes roaming down my face until she’s staring at my throat. “Then why is your neck all red?” she asks, and I look up to find her head cocked as she observes me.

“It’s not.”

She scoffs. “It is. I’m staring right at it. It’s your tell.”

“It’s not a tell. It’s a?—”

“It’s a tell,” she finishes for me. “I noticed it the first time when you barged into Honey’s.”

“I wasn’t lying when I came into Hey Honey’s that day.”

She laughs. “It’s not a tell for lying, firefighter. It happens when you’re embarrassed.”

My eyes slightly widen at her admission, her perception of me almost as accurate as mine of her, like we can read each other without any words between us and have been doing so since we met.

“And you don’t have to be embarrassed that you’re a grump who hates sweets and music. It fits with that brooding image you go for.”

“It’s not an image, Rumi. It’s just how I am.” I’ve been called grumpy, mean, standoffish—almost any other word you can come up with without saying “asshole”.

“I think you want people to think you are, but you’re really not.” She looks at Evee whose eyes go from me to her mom before they go back to me again. “Or at least not with us.” Her small smile, the way her eyes soften, is enough to make me melt.

“Okay, fine.” I feel more blood rush to my neck as I busy myself with rolling more balls of cookie dough, her correct assumption that I’m an ass to everyone but her and Evee hits too close to home, making me feel even more things I shouldn’t be feeling about my friend.

“I listen to Megan Thee Stallion when I work out.”

I’d call her music my guilty pleasure, but there’s no part of me that feels guilty for needing her music to get in a good run or lift. The embarrassment comes from the “hot girls lift heavy” playlist I found on Spotify that had all her songs.

The first time I clicked on it, it was an accident.

But now, I can’t listen to anything else when I’m at the gym.

What can I say? I support women’s unapologetic confidence and female strength and sexuality.

The moment of warmth dissolves when Rumi tilts her head back and lets out a laugh.

“Not at all what I expected you to say when you said ‘rap’.” She shakes her head as she smiles, her laugh making Evee clap her hands and giggle too.

Rumi looks at me, her eyes going from my throat to my eyes.

“And no need to be embarrassed. I think more men should appreciate women and their voices to modern feminism.” She reaches toward the bowl as I roll another piece of dough and steals some for herself.