The guest room window overlooks the hedge. I glimpse something very purple and veryrge on Ethan’swn-is that a bouncy castle?-and smile. A kid’s birthday party. I haven’t been to one in… over a decade, probably. Not since I was a kid myself.


    Toast winds his way through my legs when I enter the kitchen.


    “I have arrived,” I tell him grandly. “Food is imminent.”


    He looks up at me as I fetch his wet food. The second it hits his bowl, he’s on it, devouring every morsel.


    “Do you even taste it on the way down?”


    There’s no response, just the sound of his furious eating.


    “We won’t make a gourmand cat out of you,” I tell him, mock-sadness in my voice. “That career path is ruled out for you.”


    He doesn’t answer. Not very talkative, either. Sighing at my own silliness, I assemble my ingredients and mixing bowl on the giant kitchen ind. Ethan had requested brownies, but I’m keen to make a different recipe… chocte chip cookies. All kids like that, right?


    It’s one of many questions that whirl through my mind as I bake. The pressing list of things to do is never far away. A ce to stay, financial aid applications, writing my thesis…


    “Maybe you can help me, Toast,” I say. “How many words do you type per minute with those paws?”


    He looks at me over the empty rim of his bowl with wide, golden eyes. You’re on your own, they say.


    “Yeah. I figured.”


    A few hourster, in a dress and a pair of wedge heels, I head out to the front door. Music drifts over Ethan’s side of the hedge, punctuated by children’s excited shrieks.


    The driveway is decked out with balloons, tied to every possible anchor. Pinks and blues and yellows. The front door is open and guests are milling beyond, adults and children alike.


    I hold on to my basket of cookies like it’s a lifeline and step inside. I’m nearly bowled over when two kids race past me, one chasing the other. A woman in heels runs after them. “Not upstairs!” she calls.


    I weave through a few men in suits to get to the giant kitchen ind I’ve spotted in the distance. Who wears a suit to a kid’s birthday party?


    The ind is overflowing with presents and food. In the center is a giant chocte cake,plete with two beloved sister-princesses on top. I put my basket of cookies down in between a te of Rice Krispies Treats and watermelon slices.


    Smiling at a child standing on the other side, I walk through the openndscaped living room to the patio. Ah. So the purple thing I’d seen that morning had been a bouncy castle. And a popr one, judging by the number of kids currently on it.


    I don’t see Haven, Ethan or Evie anywhere, nor Maria. But I do see a host of parents and kids and a few servers, too, walking around with trays of lemonade.


    To my right I overhear two men debating stock options, and to my left a few women discuss an ongoing renovation project. They promised me it would be done in five months!


    I feel spectacrly out of ce, and except for the kids themselves, like the youngest person there.


    I spot Ethan at the far end of thewn. He’s hoisting Haven up in the air as she screams withughter. He throws her into the bouncy castle so she-and the kids around her-all fly up from the impact. She bounces back, arms raised, and he does it again. And again. The sight makes me smile.


    After ap around the party-I catch snippets of conversations about dance recitals and summer vacations-I sneak back out and retreat up my own driveway. Mingling has never been my strong suit, and not at a party like that. Ethan had only been half-joking when he said Seattle’s preschool elite would be there.


    It’ste that evening when my doorbell rings. I’ve long since swapped out my dress for a pair of sweats, my makeup off, an old movie ying on the massive TV in the living room.


    After a moment of deliberation, I press down the answer button on the inte system. The camera flicks to life. “Hello?”


    It’s Ethan, a bottle of wine in one hand, the basket I’d delivered cookies in sped in the other. “I’m here to return your basket,” he says, and the deep timbre of his voice is impressive even through the static. “Open up, Be.”


    And God help me, but I do. The gate swings open and I rush to the mirror, running a hand through my hair. My sweatpants aren’t that bad. But the T-shirt? It has the old Washington Polytech logo on it and it’s two sizes too big.


    “Damn it, damn it…” Do I have time to run upstairs and pull on a camisole? A sweater? Anything that doesn’t have a hole in it?


    A knock on the front door.


    My time has run out.


    “Toast! Not now!” The damn cat is pressing close to the front door, looking up at my hand on the doorknob. The intent in his eyes is clear. Escape!


    I scoop down and lift him up in my arms. I’d discovered just yesterday that he very much dislikes being carried. Tonight’s no different. He lets out a grumpy meow and squirms.This text is ? N?velDrama/.Org.


    I pull open the door. “Ethan, hi.”


    “Hey.” Ethan’s still in his chinos and shirt, now unbuttoned at the top. “Is that the famous cat?”


    “Yes. Come in, please, before he gets out. He’s an escape artist, this one.”


    Ethan pushes the door shut with his foot and Toast leaps onto the floor. After a brief moment of hesitation, he winds his way around Ethan’s legs.


    “And disloyal, apparently,” I say. “He never does that to me.”


    Ethan’s warmughter fills the hallway, and it’s a prettyrge hallway, so that’s saying a lot. He bends down to scratch the cat. “He’s just friendly,” he says. “Which is more than I can say for you.”


    “Oh?”


    His gaze turns teasing. “You thought you’d just leave your cookies and sneak out of there without saying hello?”


    “Oh, I’m sorry about that. You looked busy, and Haven looked like she was having an absolute st.”


    “She most certainly was. She’s out like a light now.”


    “That’s good. Come on, let’s head inside…” I lead him into the kitchen, epting the basket he hands out to me. “How did you know they were my cookies?”


    Ethan raises an eyebrow. “I would recognize your baking anywhere.”


    I swear, my heart does a double-take at that.


    “The basket isbeled,” he says. “Property of the Gardners, written in the bottom. Your aunt and uncle are proper folk, it seems.”


    I put it down on the counter. “Did you like them?”


    “I wish I could say. Unfortunately, they were very popr. I saw plenty of kids who looked like they enjoyed them, though.”


    “Yeah, there were a lot of guests there.”


    “Too many.” He tugs at the cor of his shirt again, putting down the bottle of red wine in front of him. “I’ve spoken about nothing but school districts and vination schedules all day. Would you like a ss of wine and a discussion about something that’s not even remotely kid-rted?”