Page 67 - My FlipBook

T R A I L O F C R U M B S

his eyebrows pinched in concentration. He scooped the last
of their margarine into the bowl. A sweet sting, seeing him in
the kitchen again, but by himself. He free-poured the vanilla.
Their mom had always done that too.
Greta knew she should get up and offer to help, try to fill
that empty space at his side. Somehow it felt disrespectful.
Ash didn’t ask her to either. Maybe he had avoided the
kitchen to spare them both.

“Aren’t you going to sneak some cookie dough?” Ash
asked.
She smiled and took a pinch with her fingers, ducking her
head away from him. The smell from the oven made the base-
ment feel warmer. When the stove timer rang, Ash dropped
a crumbly peanut-butter cookie by her elbow and loaded the
rest on a paper plate.

“Raisins in cookies are evil,” he said.
As Ash slipped on his shoes—no jacket—Greta followed
behind him. “I’ll go with you.”
He nodded and led the way across the street and up Nate’s
steps. He rang the doorbell. Nate answered the door this time,
opening it a crack. “Oh, hi.” His red hair stood in tufts.
Ash swallowed and pushed the plate of cookies forward,
like they would speak for him. Nate eyed the cookies, then
Greta and Ash. So he wasn’t going to make this easy. Standing

behind Ash, Greta nudged his elbow.
“We—I—just wanted to say sorry for”—he cleared his
throat—“you know, driving your car all crazy and…” He
didn’t finish the sentence.

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