Page 15

I don't trust myself to look at her. Instead, I pop the cookie into my mouth.

Silence stretches between us like taffy.

"How is it?" she asks finally.

"It tastes like a fucking cookie," I reply.

"You don't have to be an asshole at every opportunity," she mutters, reaching for the piping bag and getting back to work with the frosting.

"Gingerbread?" I ask.

"Yes."

"My sister used to make these for Christmas," I say.

She pauses. "Oh?"

I don't know why I told her that.

"Do you want some more?" She slides the plate toward me.

I help myself to another. I usually avoid sugary food, but these cookies take me right back to when I was a little boy. The taste reminds me of my sister's laugh and the excitement of Christmas morning.

"I'm glad you like them," Emma says, finishing up the icing on another batch.

It's like watching a pianist play. Her hands are deft as she moves, like she's had hours of practice.

"You're good at this," I observe.

"It's always been my dream to have my own bakery," she says.

"What stopped you?" I ask.

She lifts a shoulder. "Some things are easier said than done."

"You should just do it anyway." I shrug.

"That's easy for someone like you to say," she replies, tucking some stray hair behind her ear.

"I'm a venture capitalist," I say. "I invest in local businesses every week. If you need money to open a bakery, you can just ask me."

"That's very generous of you to offer," she says. "But now is not the right time. And when it is, I want to be able to do it on my own."

She doesn't like depending on other people.

I was quick to make assumptions about her. But the more I get to know her, the more I like her.

This girl has a sick grandmother, a psychotic stalker, and fifty-seven dollars in her bank account. She has every reason to be miserable and sulky. But instead, she finds little pockets of joy throughout the day. Things like cookies and shopping for Halloween decorations.

But there's more. She has this light that radiates from inside her.

It must be the reason I can't take my eyes off her.

"You're watching me," she says.

"I'm trying to figure you out," I say.

She shakes her head, but there's a small smile on her face.

"You're probably the only person I know who says exactly what's on their mind every single time," she says.

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"I'm justmaking an observation." She shrugs.

This moment between us feels so simple. It feels so natural. I don't always enjoy the company of other people, but it doesn't take any effort at all to be with her.

The moment shatters with the sound of the kids coming home.

Like me, they make a beeline to the kitchen.

"You made cookies?" James asks, looking at Emma in awe.

"Yes, but I need your help," Emma says.

Rosalie and James gather around the kitchen island, their eyes lighting up at the sight of all the cookies.

"Go wash your hands first," Emma says.

The kids do as they're told and then come running back to the island. Even Rosalie looks like a kid for the first time in a long time.

"I want the pink frosting," Rosalie says.

"Here you go." Emma hands her the pink piping bag.

"Ghosts aren't pink." James wrinkles his nose.

"Are too," Rosalie counters, her piping bag hovering over the cookie. "How do I start?"

"Apply light pressure to get the icing out and let your hand flow freely," Emma instructs.

Rosalie looks up at Emma.

"What if I mess up?" she asks.

"Then we'll eat the cookies with our eyes closed," Emma says. "I'm kidding. It doesn't really matter. Just do your best."

"I want it to be perfect," Rosalie says, eyeing the rest of the cookies. "Like yours."

"Just have fun with it, sweetheart," Emma says.

Rosalie nods and gets started with the frosting.

"Can I do the spiderwebs?" James asks, reaching for the cookies in the shape of spiderwebs.

"All yours," Emma says, placing them in front of James.

He selects the green icing bag.

Rosalie peers over at him and huffs. "Like spiderwebs are green."

James giggles as he finishes the frosting on a cookie. Soon after he's done, he picks out another color and gets to work again. While he works, he keeps sneaking glances at the cookies that are ready to eat.

"Would you like a snack break, James?" Emma asks.

"Yes, please," James says.

He waits patiently as Emma hands him a glass of milk and a small plate for his cookies. His grin makes something twist in my chest. I could never make him happy like this.

Around me, he's always walking on eggshells. He doesn't feel comfortable to be himself when he's with me.

Rosalie is hunched over the single cookie she's been working on for the past few minutes.

"What about you?" Emma says.

I glance up to see that she's looking at me.

"Hmm?" I say.

She raises an eyebrow.

James giggles and pushes the tray of half-decorated cookies toward me.

"Your turn to decorate." He grins at me.

"I don't know," I say.

"You have to," James insists.

Emma is biting the inside of her cheek. All of this seems so frivolous, but I roll up my sleeves and reach for the piping bag. James cheers as I get to work on the cookies.

"You're so bad at this." He giggles, dunking his cookie in the milk and popping it in his mouth.

"I'm done," Rosalie says quietly.

Emma looks over at the cookie Rosalie has been working on and freezes.

"Rose, this is beautiful," Emma says.

Everyone at the table holds their breath. Even James stops eating.

Rosalie pushes herself away from the table and runs from the kitchen.

"What happened?" Emma says. "Did I say something wrong?"

"Her mother used to call her that," I say, glancing at the table. "Rose."

"Oh, I didn't know," Emma says, covering her mouth with her hand.

"How could you have?" I say.

Emma worries her bottom lip between her teeth.

"Don't stress about it," I say. "She'll be okay."

She nods and picks up the cookie that Rosalie was working on.

"She's so talented," Emma says. "Look at this."

Rosalie was supposed to be working on a ghost. Instead of drawing it as a plain white blob with eyes, she made it in intricate detail. It looks like a woman in a white nightgown. The effect is both haunting and beautiful.

"She used to paint," I say, "but she doesn't anymore."

"Why not?" she asks.

I don't like this line of questioning. Emma Turner has been in our lives for two days, and she already knows way more than she's supposed to.

"Because Rosalie and Mommy used to paint together," James answers softly.

He pushes aside his plate of cookies, done with eating. A sudden gloom has descended over us like an invisible fishing net, trapping all of us against our will.

Losing someone you love is never easy.

Just when you think you can finally move on with your life, the aftershock hits you when you least expect it. It paralyzes you while shaking up everything around you.

But moving forward is the only choice.

I clear my throat. "Shall we go shopping now?"