“I’m not hungry.”
“You didn’t eat breakfast or lunch, and I’m gonna guess you didn’t eat dinner. You have to eat something.”
“Lucky—”
“I’ll make you toast.”
“Alright,” I say, leaning against the island. I’m not in the mood to eat, but he’s right. I have to eat every day. I watch him cook his sandwich in a black frying pan, then put two slices of bread in the toaster for me. Everything Jude does with his hands looks easy and fluid, like a magic trick. I find myself watching his hands a lot since I moved in, fascinated by his tattoos and trying to decipher the designs.
When he hands me a plate with lightly buttered toast sprinkled with cinnamon, I notice his ring is gone.
His wedding ring. Not his other rings.
That was fast.
As he eats his sandwich across the island from me, I’m still looking at his hands, even though the quick removal of the ring is bothering me. I can’t stop thinking about how he touched me earlier, the way he held my face still for his kiss. It felt so romantically possessive.
I need to stop thinking about it.
After I finish my toast, I open the oven and take out the small, foil-covered pan I hid there last night.
“I made these for you. Us,” I say putting the pan in front of him. “I thought we’d have them earlier, but you left…” Bolted, is more like it.
He wipes his mouth with his napkin and looks at me quizzically. I pull the foil off to reveal ten chocolate chip cookies decorated with icing to look like a groom’s tux, and a bride’s dress.
“Rebecca helped me make and decorate them yesterday. It’s part of my therapy, to bake something from scratch, and then eat it.” I take a breath, still unsure if I can get myself to eat one. “I haven’t tried one yet. I wanted to do it together.”
“Skylar…” I wasn’t expecting to hear the slight pitch of emotion in his deep voice. Or to see his eyes soften as he looks at the cookies. “I can’t believe you made wedding cookies for us.”
“They’re the same kind you like from the shop, just with icing. I hope that doesn’t ruin them for you.”
“You kiddin’? Icing makes them even better.” He takes one of the bride-decorated ones out of the pan. “I wish I’d known you’d done this, I would’ve stuck around.”
“You’d stick around for cookies, but not to hang out with me after our wedding?” I tease.
“Of course, for cookies. You know these are my weakness. But hanging out with my new fake wife would’ve been the icing on the cake.” He winks at me and takes a bite out of the bride cookie. “No pun intended.”
“How is it?” Fake wife asks. That’s me.
“Delicious. If you’re gonna eat one, you better do it before I eat them all.”
Gingerly, I take one of the groom cookies out and study it. Rebecca did everything step-by-step with me. Showing me all the fresh ingredients and explaining the purpose of each. Like Jude, she’s been patient and understanding with my recovery steps.
She also had a small hissy fit when I told her I was marrying Jude. She rattled off a list a mile long of reasons why it was a very bad idea. All of them valid. I totally understand her feelings, especially since she’s been through a nasty divorce.
“Do you want to talk it out?” Jude asks, taking his third cookie while I’m still staring at mine. “Is there something about it that’s worrying you? The color? What’s in it? A memory?”
I shake my head. “No. None of that. It’s just new.”
“Do you want to break it up into small pieces?” he suggests.
That works, sometimes. A cookie that’s four inches in diameter is less intimidating if it’s broken into bite-sized pieces.
“I’m going to try that,” I reply, grateful that he knows all my little steps. We talk a lot after each of my therapy sessions, and he truly listens. I think he understands the importance of it all because he was in drug rehab for a short time when he was younger.
I break the cookie in half, then in quarters, then take those pieces and break them into smaller pieces. Picking one up, I put it in my mouth, let it rest on my tongue for a moment, then slowly chew it. It’s a lot of different textures and flavors. The chocolate chips are sweet and soft amongst the crumbly parts. The icing slightly slippery. I don’t choke or feel sick.
He raises his eyebrow at me, waiting for me to react. Sometimes I like new foods, other times, I spit them out.
“It’s good,” I say after I swallow it. “I’m not obsessed like you are, but it’s not bad.”
He laughs. “Obsessed is a strong word.”
“Well, if it fits…” I smile.