“NOT bad,” I said aloud to my empty apartment. “Seven extra grams of grated nutmeg makes all the difference. Best cinnamon-streusel pumpkin muffin ever. Or at least so far.” I opened my eyes, making a slow assessment of my kitchen. Four other batches of pumpkin muffins littered the countertop, many of them on their sides after I took one bite and impatiently tossed them aside. This batch, the fifth, was the queen of the bunch.
“I do have some reservations about the pecans.” My fluffy panda-head slippers slapped on the wood floors as I walked back to the oven. Holding my butter-smudged working recipe up to the light, I considered the next round of alterations. “I wonder about almonds. Or no! Pistachios!” I made a hasty note and groaned when I heard the buzzer announcing I had a visitor who wanted to come up the elevator.
“I told Omar no visitors,” I muttered while walking to the phone. “What?” I snarled. “Avery, I’m tired of this conversation. The answer is no second season. No. Non. Nyet. Nada.”
“Listen, nada is Spanish for ‘nothing.’ If you’re going to freak out, at least get your vocab right.” Manda sounded as if she were about to put me in time-out. “Let me up. Omar is giving me the evil eye.”
Knowing I had to face the Manda music at some point, I pushed the button to allow her entry and remained slumped against the counter when the elevator door opened.
“Heavenly days,” she breathed when she saw me. “You’re worse than last week.” She pointed her finger at my face and spoke sternly. “Did you watch the episode last night after all? I thought you said you weren’t going to watch the rest of the season because it made you want to commit crimes.”
I rolled my eyes and made a face, which, apparently, did not help because Manda recoiled. “What?” I pulled my fingers through my hair. “So I haven’t showered for a couple days.”
She put her hands on her hips.
“Okay, more than a couple days. And no, I did not watch last night’s episode, thank you very much. Though I’m sure all my Facebook besties from high school did and will be messaging me all day to get the inside scoop on my awesome life. So many friends, none of them real.” I swallowed the ire rising in my throat.
Manda nodded at the counters. “Pumpkin cupcakes?”
“Muffins. With streusel.” I plucked one from the most recent batch and tossed it to her. “This is the best so far. You know, baking is really fun when you don’t have to worry about snotty people in the dining room, or a crazy boss, or camera crews or restaurant critics.” I bit into my second muffin and chewed around the buttery crumbs in my mouth. “I’m pretty good at it.”
Manda chewed thoughtfully. “You are. You’re right. These are delicious. So were last week’s apple turnovers.”
“Mmm. The puff pastry was wicked good.”
“And the rum chocolate cakes from the week before.”
“I loved those. I should make more of those.”
Manda snagged my third muffin while it was on its way to my mouth. “Slow down, there, tiger. You’re going to feel sick again, like after the cheesecake bites last weekend. Too much of a good thing can be a bad thing.” She turned my shoulders toward the master bedroom. “You go take some time to scrub the grime off your skin and hair while I clean up out here. And then we will talk.”
“I can talk with greasy hair. It’s easy,” I whined. Showering sounded like a lot of work, and I was onto something with the pistachios. I just needed a few more hours.
“But I’d rather look at you when you don’t appear to be in need of social services. Go.”
I muttered something about being prejudiced against the homeless, but I obeyed Manda’s orders. The walk-in shower steamed up quickly with hot water, and I stood under the spray for a long time with my eyes closed, chin raised. By the time I had washed every inch of skin, shampooed twice, and shaved an astonishing amount of hair off my legs, I felt dizzy with the expended effort. I kept my hair wrapped in a towel when I walked back to the kitchen in a clean T-shirt and jeans.
“This role reversal is chilling,” I said, taking in the image of Manda dumping a stack of old newspaper into the recycling bin.
“Tell me about it,” she said, picking up a browned apple core from a table by the couch and disposing of it. “I never thought I’d live to see the day when my neurotic best friend leaves an empty coffee cup unattended so long the dregs turn to mold.”
“No!” I gasped.
“Yes. And I’m happy to see you are repulsed.” She sat down heavily on the couch and patted the cushion next to her. “Come sit. I made you tea.”
My feet on the ottoman and settled under the blanket I’d dragged off my bed days before, I took the mug she offered. My nose wrinkled on the first inhale. “What is this stuff?”