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Megan stands over the mess in the kitchen with a look of disgust on her face.
“What,” she begins, “are you doing?”
“Baking!” Cindy exclaims. She’s holding a bowl in her arms, and a wooden spoon in her free hand. “Obviously.”
Megan groans. “Again?”
Cindy stirs the batter vigorously. “Oh, come on. You like it!”
“Yeah, whatever.” Megan rolls her eyes. “You know, sometimes I really regret moving in with you.” They’ve been living together since they graduated high school, and every time the kitchen gets messy (AKA, every time Cindy tries to cook), there’s a 50% chance that something will catch on fire. Megan taps her foot, thinking. “Let me help,” she finally says.
“What? But it’s supposed to be a treat for you!”
Aw, Megan thinks. Cute. And dangerous. “Yeah, sure. Move over and give me the cookie batter.”
“How’d you know it’s cookie batter?”
“It’s always cookie batter.”
She spends the next few minutes stirring, until Cindy suddenly gasps. “I forgot the chocolate chips!”
Megan has a very vivid memory of what exactly happened to the cookies the last time they were chocolate-chip, and feels her stomach turn. “Wait, wait, we don’t really need—”
But Cindy is already at the cupboard. Her eyes light up when she sees the bag, and she snatches it, before tearing at the packaging. “Ow!” She pulls her hand back.
“What?”
“Stupid edge gave me a papercut when I tore it.” Cindy shakes her hand, then lifts it up to observe her finger. From where Megan stands, she manages to catch a glimpse of the thin red line across Cindy’s skin.
Oh, shit. “Wait, Cindy, don’t—”
Cindy sticks her finger in her mouth, probably instinctively. Unsanitary, that’s one thing, that’s something she’s come to expect from Cindy’s cooking. But she sees Cindy’s eyes widen, her face contort, and she’s certain. The taste of blood isn’t going to bring up any good memories.
Cindy pulls her finger from her mouth. She half-runs to the nearby sink, leaning over, and spitting in it. Once, twice, three times. “Water,” she manages, between spits.
Megan runs to the cabinet, grabs a glass, and passes it to Cindy. Cindy fills it with water from the tap and downs it in a few gulps. She spits, again. “Damn it! I can still taste it!”
Megan yanks open the fridge and grabs the first liquid she can find — a carton of orange juice that’s been sitting open for a few days. It’ll do. She pours it into the glass, and passes it back to Cindy, who downs it, swishing the liquid around in her mouth. After she swallows, she refills the glass with water, again. Spits, again. Then gags, clutching the edge of the sink.
“Sorry,” she chokes out.
“It’s fine,” Megan tells her. She wraps an arm around her shoulders — although, she has to reach up, Cindy’s so tall — rubbing up and down. “Take your time.”
“I forgot.”
“Well, that’s good, right?”
Cindy wipes her mouth. “Yeah, I guess.”
Megan can imagine the memories that the taste must have brought back to Cindy. Biting into what she’d thought was a cherry popsicle. Finding the dead guy in the closet. Getting chased around that freaky house by those freaky vampires.
They got out alright, but those army guys were real insistent about how they couldn’t talk to anyone about this. They could talk to each other, but they’d all gone off and done their own things after high school.
Sticking with Cindy feels right, though. Feels good. One of the few things Megan is sure about anymore. Even if Cindy’s favourite thing is baking, and her baking is frankly atrocious.
But now, Cindy is slinking out from Megan’s arms with surprising ease, considering how much taller she is.
“I’ll clean up later, promise,” she says.
“Wait, Cindy—”
But too late, Megan hears the door to Cindy’s room slam closed.
A few hours later, she taps her knuckles against the door. “You gonna finish these, or what?”
Cindy pokes her head out of her room. “Nah,” she says. “I’ll clean up soon.”
Megan frowns. “Come on, really?”
Cindy huffs. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea anymore.”
Okay, now that’s concerning. It’s not like Cindy to abandon a bake halfway through. “What? Why?”
Cindy rubs her fingers together, and Megan sees the bandage — or rather, bandages wrapped tight around her index. Overdoing it, much? But it just makes her feel more concerned.
“I’ll try again,” Cindy says, “after it heals. I don’t wanna get blood in the batter.”
Megan eyes the bandages. “I don’t think that’ll be a problem.”
Cindy’s making a face that would be funny, if Megan didn’t know the context. “God! If you want them so much, just bake them yourself. You always hate what I make, anyway.”
Well, she’s not wrong. Megan sighs. “Look, don’t worry about the kitchen. I’ll clean up.”
Cindy’s face is downcast, but as Megan meets her eyes, she looks away. “Thanks,” she says. Before disappearing back into her room.
Megan works fast, so it only takes about ten minutes to throw the bowls in the sink and wipe down the counters. Still, she finds herself glancing back at that closed door down the hall. This isn’t normal.
This sucks.
Cindy yawns as she walks into the kitchen the next morning, but stops, mid-stretch, as she sees what’s on the counter. She lowers her arms and groans. “Megan, I told you, I don’t want to bake today—”
“God, just shut up and listen.” Megan is pulling out the last of the ingredients she remembers seeing yesterday, and puts down the flour with a thud. “I’m going to be doing the heavy lifting. You just gotta tell me what to do, okay? Be my supervisor.” She watches Cindy rub her fingers together, playing with the bandages. “You don’t need to touch anything,” Megan promises. “Not till you’re feeling alright.”
Cindy looks her up and down. Then plops into a chair by the counter. “You gotta pre-heat the oven before anything else.”
“Oh, shit, I forgot.”
Cindy laughs. “Crank that baby uuuuuup, Meg!”
It’s hard to make changes that’ll ensure the safety of the kitchen with Cindy watching and ordering her around, but miraculously, the cookies get in the oven without anything spilling or catching fire. Still, Megan watches them bake out of the corner of her eye while waiting at the table with Cindy.
Cindy rocks back and forth in her chair with a sort of practiced balance. “They smell sooooo good.”
Megan groans, putting her head down. “How much longer?”
“I dunno. Check them in like, five?”
“Sure.”
“Thanks.” Cindy pauses. “Thanks for all of it.”
Megan lifts her head up, slightly. “Yeah, ‘course. No problem.”
Cindy smiles, and reaches across. Megan suddenly feels the hand patting the fluffy curls of her hair. She moans, exaggeratedly. “You jerk, you’re gonna mess it up!”
“Wait, did you do it today? I can’t tell.”
“Ughhhh, you’re so annoying…”
“Do you smell something burning?”
“Oh, shit!” Megan scrambles off the table, sliding in her socks across the hard floor. She yanks open to door to the oven and instinctively grabs at the tray. “Ow! Fuck! Hot!”
“You dumbass!” comes Cindy’s voice from a few feet away.
“Shut up!” Megan calls back, but she can hear the giggle in her voice. She grabs a mitt and pulls the tray out, making sure to turn off the oven (don’t want a repeat of last month’s incident). She practically throws them on the counter, noticing the singed, blackened edges. Man. This is all harder than she thought.
“How do they look?”
“Uh, well, you’ll see.”
They let the cookies sit for a few minutes. They’re still warm, bordering on hot, when Megan finally cracks, picks one up with her fingernails, and gingerly bites down.
Cindy watches her from the chair, eyeing the other cookies on the counter with a distinct look of hunger. “Come on, don’t leave me in suspense. What do you think?”
Megan chews for a few more seconds, and swallows. Then grins. “Terrible. I love it.”