“Well, you learn something new every day, don’t you? I figured you went back to the hotel after a game, takeout in hand, and turned on some sort of show you’d talk to the guys about later in the locker room. You know, just a bunch of guys gabbing about Stranger Things.”

I chuckle and lean close. “You don’t know how scary accurate that is. But instead of takeout, there are occasional nights when the boys and I go out to our favorite restaurants in each city. Then we go back to our rooms and watch Stranger Things.”

“Ooo, so close to getting that right.”

“Welcome to How to Bake with Beatrice,” the instructor cuts through all the chatter. “I’m Beatrice, and I’ll be your instructor. Who is ready to learn how to bake éclairs?”

Myla raises her hand and adds, “Woo,” which of course draws attention toward us.

Because I don’t want her to be alone, I fist-pump the air and say, “Éclairs, fuck yeah.”

“Sir, please refrain from swearing . . . and shouting.”

“Oh, sorry. Uh, éclairs, hooray!”

Myla snorts next to me, and when I glance at her and see that big, beautiful smile of hers, I know I’m doing something right.

* * *

“Don’t open the oven,” I say as Myla reaches for the handle.

“But what if they’re burning?”

“They’re not burning. Just turn on the light if you’re that concerned. If I learned one thing from my mom while she baked hundreds of cookies every year at Christmas, it’s that you don’t open the oven unless you have to, as it lets all the hot air out.”

“Fine.” She sits back down on one of the stools and drums her fingers on the counter.

Beatrice gave an unnecessarily long lecture about the history of éclairs that I nearly dozed off during and then a faster-than-life example on how to make them. I attempted to watch as best I could, but the lady was tossing ingredients around, making a show of just how quick she was that I barely understood a damn thing. Needless to say, I’m not super positive about these coming out well.

“Did you ever help your mom bake these hundreds of cookies?” Myla asks.

“Yes,” I answer. “But I was more in charge of washing bowls, keeping the counters clean, and moving the cookies from the baking trays to the cooling racks.”

Myla’s nose scrunches up. “That doesn’t sound very fun.”

“It was for me,” I answer. “I just liked spending time with my mom. Nola, my sister, would do the mixing, and Banner would get banished from the kitchen after ten minutes for being an instigator. He did it on purpose so he could go back to work on his computer.”

“Are your parents still alive?”

I nod. “Yeah. They live in Maine in the same house we grew up in. An old Victorian with uneven floors, creaky stairs, and a multicolor exterior.”

“Sounds like a dream. Were there ghosts in the house?”