Collide by Megan Hart Page A

had ended more than thirty years ago. I could respect him not wanting to live on the bragging rights of work he’d done so long ago, or off a body that had now aged. I could respect him not wanting to be worshipped for his looks. What I couldn’t get behind was him blowing me off like he’d never made me tea just the way I like it and offered me cookies. That was douchebaggery of the highest degree, and I didn’t want to believe he was a big bag of dicks. I was too much in crush for that.
    Johnny could have no idea of the late-night movie marathon Jen and I’d had. He couldn’t know of the fugues and the dreams. And no matter how anyone else had ever behaved to him, I hadn’t. No matter what I’d thought or what had gone on in my subconscious, I hadn’t acted on it. I hated that he’d lumped me in with loony fans who stalked him in the Mocha. Hey, I hadn’t moved into my house to get closer to him, for fuck’s sake. We were neighbors.
    My stomach rumbled at the memory of the cookies. What had he said? Homemade’s better? And wouldn’t it be neighborly of me to offer him some?
    In a few minutes I had an array of baking materials spread on my kitchen island. I’d bought this house in part because of the kitchen, which the former owners had refurbished and updated—not in colors I liked or top-of-the-line appliances, but they’d added this island that doubled as workspace and eating area. I didn’t have a kitchen table.
    I had all the ingredients. I even had mixing bowls and measuring cups. What I didn’t have was a recipe. Not a good one. Not the best one. I had pieces of it stored away in my Swiss-cheese brain, but I’d never actually baked my grandma’s chocolate chip cookies on my own.
    My phone was already to my ear, my mom on autodial, when I realized I hadn’t spoken to her in about three days. Three. I couldn’t remember ever not speaking to my mom for more than two days or so in a row. If I didn’t call her, she called and left me messages until I called back.
    She’d answered before I could contemplate this too much. “Hello?”
    “Mom, it’s me. Emm,” I felt suddenly compelled to say, as though she had more than one daughter.
    “Emmaline. Hi. What’s going on?”
    She hadn’t asked me what was wrong. That was both a relief and a concern. “I need grandma’s chocolate chip cookie recipe.”
    “You’re baking?”
    “Well…yeah.” I laughed. “Why else would I need it?”
    “I haven’t made cookies in forever,” my mom said.
    I paused in shaking the bag of flour into the tin I hadn’t been using before. “Really? How come?”
    “Well…your dad and I have been trying to cut back on sweets. Get ourselves in shape.”
    “Oh.” I didn’t think anything of that. My mom put my dad on a diet a couple times a year and often vowed to do the same for herself, but both of them liked to eat and not exercise, a family trait I’d unfortunately inherited. “How’s that going?”
    “Oh, you know your dad. He says he’s sticking with it, but I know he’s sneaking burgers and fries.”
    “Maybe if you made him cookies once in a while he wouldn’t,” I offered, and we both giggled, knowing there was no way my dad would replace burgers and fries with cookies, no matter how good they were.
    “I found it.” My mom sounded triumphant. “I stuck the paper in the back of that cookbook Aunt Min got for me a few Christmases ago.”
    “Which one, the low-fat baking one?”
    “Yes.”
    “Mom, why would you put a chocolate chip cookie recipe in that cookbook?”
    “Because,” my mom said as though I were a fool for even asking, “I knew I wouldn’t look for it there.”
    We both laughed again. Nostalgia swept me. I’d spent so many evenings baking cookies with my mom, or rolling out crust for fruit pies and potpies. My mom was an excellent cook and had taught me well, but I hardly ever cooked for myself. I missed that. I missed her.
    “Emm? You’re not getting a cold, are you?