“Good. Prepare to be wowed.”
I could have sworn that I’d heard him mumble “I already am,” but decided that it was my imagination and the overflow of emotions swirling around in my head at the moment. I had to hand it to Brogan, he’d succeeded at taking my mind off the fact that I’d been screwed over by my coworker and my relationship with my mom was strained for the first time in years. It was much easier to focus on the mundane task of measuring and mixing. And eating. Always eating. Because when I was stuffing my face, I couldn’t possibly say anything stupid.
A few minutes later, all the ingredients for the cookies were laid out across the granite countertops, along with a red KitchenAid mixer. For someone who consistently spent more time in his office than at home, he kept his kitchen well-stocked.
Once the wet and dry ingredients were mixed together, I began balling up cookie dough and placing it on a baking sheet. Scoop. Roll. Smash. Scoop. Roll. Smash. Three very easy tasks that took all my focus. By the time I lined up enough to cover an entire sheet, the worries of today seemed to fade to background noise. It was a long way away, but I couldn’t wait until I had a kid of my own to share this tradition with.
Brogan joined me at the counter, the evidence of a long day etched into his face.
“Have you had a chance to watch any of the other movies I recommended?” I asked, trying to get his mind off whatever was bugging him from work.
He drummed his fingers along the granite countertop. “No, but they’re queued up on my Netflix account.”
“I think you’ll really like Mean Girls. It’s a classic.”
“Obviously we have a much different definition of what a classic is.”
“Okay, tough guy, what would you deem worthy of the label?”
“Casablanca. Gone with the Wind.” He waved a hand with a flourish. “Movies that have stood the test of time.”
I continued balling up cookie dough onto the baking sheet. “You do know they make movies in this thing called color now, right?”
“Is that right up there with—what do you call it”—he paused—“a ‘cellular phone’?”
I opened the oven, popped in the sheet, and set the timer. “I’m shocked there’s not a rotary phone in your apartment.”
“There’s one in my office,” he winked.
I tsked. “You really were a deprived child.”
He huffed out a laugh. “Look at Miss Big City getting all high and mighty.”
“I’m not from here. Born and raised in downtown Portland, thank you very much.” I sat on a barstool at the breakfast bar, and Brogan joined me.
“That explains so much.” He smirked, and his dimples made an appearance for the first time tonight.
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Excuse me, but what does that mean?” Only Portlanders were allowed to call our people weird. Same way I could complain about something my mom did that annoyed the crap out of me, but if someone even thought about saying a less than flattering comment about her, I’d go full on Hulk-smash.
“Portland’s just full of weird people. Pink chickens, people walking around topless, penis doughnuts.”
I ticked off numbers on my fingers. “First off, the shirtless thing is all Eugene. And only during the Country Fair.” I winked. “Second, everyone should enjoy a Cock-N-Balls at least once in their life.” I held up my hand with three fingers out. “Third, my mom has two chickens—Betty and Horace.”
“Is it even legal to own those in the city?” He looked at me as if I’d said I was from a traveling circus troupe and performed on the trapeze.
“Yes. Seriously, have you had fresh eggs? They’re the best.” I settled back on my stool, thinking of Saturday mornings when Mom would go into the chicken coup and come back with the most beautiful blue and brown eggs. She’d cook them, along with bacon and hash browns, while we discussed who was going to be voted off our favorite reality shows.
After Dad left, this became our weekend ritual when I’d come home from college. I frowned, thinking about how I’d totally blown my mom off and declined her offer of breakfast during my visit, and instead bought us doughnuts from the coffee cart a few blocks from her house. Yep, I deserved the title of Shit Daughter.
“The closest I’ve come to fresh eggs is buying cartons with pictures of farms on them.” He smirked when he saw my grimace. “Did you see her this weekend?”
The timer beeped, and I busied myself with extracting cookies from the oven. “How did you know that?”
“You looked happier than usual on Friday.”
My breath caught and I frantically searched for a spatula in the drawers, needing something for my hands to be doing. Brogan noticed me. And not just me, but my mood before the weekend from hell and Jackson crushing part of my soul.
“Yeah, I did. She started a new treatment a few days ago. We’ll see how it goes.”