Sleet Sugar by S.J. Tilly

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

IZZY

“A

re you sure you don’t want me to come over?” Meghan asks, and I can feel her worry through the phone.

“No, I’m okay. I promise. I just needed something to distract me. Attempting to make your famous pumpkin white chocolate chip cookies should keep my brain occupied for a little while.”

“Okay. But if you change your mind, let me know. I’m just going to be at home.”

Meghan doesn’t sound like herself at all and it’s making me worry. “Are you okay?”

“Me?”

The silence that follows is long enough that I check to see if the call is still connected. “Meghan?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.” I swear I hear her sniffle. “I just feel like complete shit. I should’ve been with you, not off… whatever. It’s a mistake I won’t make again.”

“Meg, seriously - you need to stop stressing. It’s not your job to babysit me. And you couldn’t have prevented what happened.”

“Fucking asshole men. And I, uh, we know better. Safety in numbers and all that.”

I sigh. “I know. But please, stop feeling bad. And tell Katelyn and Steph the same thing. You’re all putting the blame on yourselves and that’s just wrong. Plus it makes me feel bad that you feel bad and that’s not helping anyone.”

“Ugh, fine. I’ll do my best.”

“Good.”

Meghan lets out a loud breath. “How long are you going to wait before you hunt down your Hunt?”

“My dad told me that he would handle everything, and that I should give Zach some time to cool down.”

“That’s not an answer.” Some of the snark returns to her voice and I feel myself smile for the first time all morning.

“That’s what the cookies are for. A distraction. If I haven’t heard from him by the time I’ve eaten half the batch, then I’ll go into full-on stalker mode. If I know him like I think I do, he’s torturing himself even more than you are.”

“Poor guy,” Meghan says. “He should feel like a hero, but instead he gets hauled off to jail. Fucking assholes.”

“Fucking assholes,” I agree.

Fortunately, I have everything in my pantry to try my hand at Meghan’s recipe. I don’t really bake, like ever, but Meghan’s cooked here often enough that I have all the staples. I’m not even sure what made me think of trying this, but I knew I needed something to distract my mind. And tv was not going to cut it.

As it turns out, this was one of my better ideas. I pulled up my favorite Pandora station and have been jamming out to 90’s boy bands while making a complete mess of my kitchen. Zach has still been on my mind but focusing on measurements and not getting my fingers stuck in the mixer has been the perfect distraction. And eating handfuls of chocolate chips is a nice side benefit.

Sliding the second tray of cookies in, I’m thankful for my dual ovens. Before this, I think Meghan’s the only one who’s ever had both going at the same time.

Shutting the top door, I take a moment to look at my reflection in the dark glass. Yikes. It looks like some shithead hit me in the face, and then I followed it up with a sleepless night. There are dark circles under my eyes, and my eyelids still look puffy from all the crying. Now that I’ve put several hours between myself and the ordeal, I feel a little silly for how much I cried. But I can’t help, or change, how I reacted in the moment. I’ll use my cooling face mask after my shower and hopefully that will help my sad, abused eyes.

I probably should’ve showered when I finally crawled out of bed this morning, but I couldn’t find the motivation. And now, seeing that I’m covered in flour, it’s for the best that I waited. I never even changed out of my pajamas. I’m wearing my most comfortable baggy grey sweatpants, and my favorite sleep cami that’s thin and clingy and is covered in candy cane hearts. I’m braless, of course. My hair is tied up in a messy bun. I’m barefoot. And the crowning jewel of my outfit is my We whisk you a merry Christmas apron. I may not bake, but I do love all things Christmas, all year round. Basically, I look atrocious. It’s a perk of living alone.

When Zach finally calls me, I want to look my best. But I didn’t want to sit around my house all day while I was primped to the max. That’d be stupid and nerve wracking.

I step away from my reflection. I have enough time to clean up the mess I’ve made in the kitchen before I take the cookies out of the oven. Then I’ll clean up the hot mess that is Izzy Thorpe.

I’m reaching for one of the mixing bowls when a knock on the door interrupts me.

I look at the clock. It’s only 11:00, but it wouldn’t be the first time Dad surprised me wanting to go to an early lunch.

Remembering my appearance, I roll my eyes as I walk to the door. He’ll just have to wait while I get ready. I can’t be seen in public like this.

“You should’ve…”

As I pull the door open, my words die on my lips.

Zach. He’s here. Standing on my porch.

His eyes are locked with mine, and I know he’s trying to read me, just like I’m trying to read him. He looks terrible. I mean, he looks completely handsome, because he always does, but he looks like he got as much sleep as I did last night. His posture is ramrod straight and I can feel the tension radiating off of his shoulders.

But he doesn’t look braced for a fight. He looks braced for a hit.

Seeing him so unsteady has my eyes filling with tears all over again.

Before I can think of the right words to say, I watch his gaze travel to my cheek. I know what he sees; even though I iced it, the bruise is noticeable.

I reach a hand up to brush over the mark.

“I’m okay, Zach,” I whisper. It’s all I can manage.

Zach shakes his head and looks towards the ground. I see a tear roll off his chin and it’s the most devastating thing I’ve ever witnessed.

I bite my lip hoping to get my own emotions in check, but before I can speak, his cracked voice pours over me.

“I’m so sorry, Isabelle. I’m so. Fucking. Sorry.”