“Because I tasted the dough?”
“Because you don’t follow the rules. Not even when it comes to making cookies.” I scoot the bowl out of his reach, upset to realize that I’m upset.
“What’s it matter? We’re still going to have cookies.”
“It matters to me! You won’t even make the effort for something as silly as cookies.” And, a little voice inside whispers, you won’t make the effort for me.
I’m slapping chunks of dough on a cookie sheet when Rita appears at my shoulder, her voice concerned. “Is everything all right here?”
“Yes,” I say, trying to slow my breath. I shouldn’t be surprised or disappointed. This is who Anthony is. I’m not going to change him. That’s why I’m getting over him. “We’re fine. It’s good.”
When she turns away, Anthony leans in. “Not everything has to be about rules, Mai. Some things are just fun. And good. Like raw cookie dough.”
“And some things require care and patience and commitment. Like using high heat to create a chemical reaction.” I give him a pointed stare. “You couldn’t answer her question about the right temperature, could you?”
“Because you don’t have to know,” he says. “You can see it in the pot. When the sugar turns a pretty color of brown, it’s done.”
“You are so…” I bite off my words as I take the tray of cookies, open the oven, and set it in. But I’m so quick, I miss the shelf, and the tray tips. I straighten it but not before my hand hits the oven rack. An instant later, I feel the hot flash of pain.
“Ow,” I mutter. I slam the oven door and pull my throbbing hand to my chest.
“Are you all right?” Rita is immediately by my side.
Anthony already has a hand on my elbow. “I got her.” He leads me to the sink, and there are tears at the corner of my eyes, and I’m not even sure why. “I’m fine.”
“Let’s get some cold water on that.” He uncurls my hand, and we can both see the stripe of red burned into the side of my hand. “It’s all right. Not too bad. Stuff like this happens all the time.”
“Not to me,” I say. “Accidents like this never happen to me. I’m always careful. Methodical.” I look at him. “It’s being around you. We’re a disaster together.”
He surprises me by smiling and turns up his own hand and the scrapes he got coming to my rescue yesterday. “We kind of are. Matching injuries.”
“And it’s only been a day.”
“We should wear life preservers from now on.”
I let more water wash over my hand. “Don’t make me smile.”
Rita comes back around. “I hope this won’t spoil the date for you two.”
“Oh, it’s definitely spoiled,” Anthony says cheerfully.
I brush at my eyes and laugh.
Rita stares at us a second and turns away muttering, “Kids these days.”
…
It’s only seven thirty when we pull up to the library. Not even dark. I’ll have time to do more research, I tell myself. It’ll be better than arguing with Anthony and sustaining another injury. Except it doesn’t sound better at all.
Anthony turns off the car and leans back in his seat. Quiet settles around us. A tree shades the car and makes it feel like we’re somewhere remote. Alone. He nods at my hand. “How is it?”
I run fingers lightly down the puckered skin. “It hurts.”
“Best thing is to run cool water over it.”
“And you know this because?”
“I’ve had burns before.”
“Setting dumpster fires?” I suggest.
His eyebrows lift. “You think I’m that bad?”
“I like to think the worst of you. It’s helpful.”
A tiny smile plays around his mouth. “I try to think the worst about you, too. And then you smile at me.”
“Inappropriate fling comment.”
“Yeah. I keep having those.”
“But it was a bad date, right?” I ask. “In every possible way?”
“Even worse than I expected,” he agrees. “A cooking class and I didn’t get any food. Even the cookies were terrible.”
“Because you didn’t pay attention to the thermometer and you burned our sugar.”
“Who wants to cook sugar anyway? It’s good just the way it is.”
“See?” I say as if this is the final piece of proof. “We have nothing in common.”
“I know.” He shrugs. “So maybe we should end this now.” His smile fades, leaving an assessing look in his eyes I’m not sure I like.
I smooth my hair self-consciously. “What?”
“I was just testing myself.”
“What kind of a test?”
“To see if I was, uh, done with having inappropriate thoughts.”
“Oh.” My throat is suddenly dry. My gaze drifts to his mouth. “And are you?”
His voice is gravelly and low. “Nope. Not done. How about you?”
My heart beats faster. I hate how I feel, but I don’t want to lie about it. Not with Anthony. He’s the only one I can talk to about this. I clear my throat. “Even though you follow no rules, mock the importance of science, and you double dip, I’m still having inappropriate thoughts, too.”
“Well. It’s only been two dates.”
“True.”
His gaze drops to my mouth. My stomach drops to my knees. I want to break Rule 5. I want to stomp it into dust. Instead, I look away.
His fingers tap the steering wheel, first fast and then gradually slowing as my breath does. I wonder if his heart is racing like mine? I wonder how to make this feeling stop.
“You’re like the bird outside my window,” he says.
That surprises me, and I turn back. “What bird?”
“I only noticed it since I started getting up so early. The first day it was kind of nice. Bird twittering, nature, sun coming up. All of that.”
I purse my lips. “Very poetic.” But his words have eased the tension.
“Then the second morning I was like, ‘Damn, that chirping is high-pitched.’”
“Less poetic.”
“This morning, I was tired when the alarm went off, and the bird started tweeting, and I threw a sock at the window and yelled for it to shut up.”