My father opened his mouth, then closed it.
I put my hand on Lila’s back and said, “We’re leaving.”
And we did.
In the car, Lila groaned and covered her face. “I cannot believe I said that.”
I started laughing. Real laughing.
When we got home, the apartment still smelled faintly like cinnamon.
She peeked through her fingers. “What?”
I shook my head. “I’m just admiring my work.”
She laughed too.
Then she got quiet. “Was I too harsh?”
I started the car. “No. You were honest.”
When we got home, the apartment still smelled faintly like cinnamon.
“People know the difference.”
There was flour near the stove. A rolling pin in the dish rack. Our ordinary life waiting for us.
Lila dropped into a chair and said, “It was just pie.”
I looked at her. “No,” I said. “It was love. People know the difference.”
She smiled at that. Then she said, “So… next weekend? Fifty pies?”
I stared at her.
“Let’s start with 20.”
