Family & Cookies

The shadow of his dog, Teeney, emerges from behind the screen of his front door, his presence instantly detected by my car's headlights shutting off. Teeney launches into a manic episode, his excited barks reverberating through the night as he leaps up and down, his tail surely wagging furiously if I could see that far. Panic sets in—this is not the entrance I had envisioned. I didn't want him to know I was here just yet.

My fingers, adorned with red nail polish, shoot out toward the armrest console, and I open it to reveal a vanity display of makeup. Lip glosses, eyeshadow palettes, and contour sticks lay in front of me, but oh no. Where’s my pocket mirror? This always happens, every time without fail. Frick. The urgency grows with each second. I unbuckle my seatbelt and lean closer into the armrest compartment as if moving a few centimeters forward could magically reveal my mirror. Where IS my pocket mirror?  As I rummage deeper into the compartment filled with beauty essentials, passing aside translucent powders, I start to sweat. Did I lose it? But then, like a hidden treasure finally uncovered, there it is—my pocket mirror tucked away in the far-right corner, surrounded by my Burt's Bees pomegranate lip balm. I practically lunge for it, pulling it into my trembling hands and caressing it like a precious gem. A sigh of relief escapes me. 

I hold the mirror close to my face, reflecting my middle hair part and my carefully blow-dried bangs that sweep gracefully to either side of my cheeks. I take a quick check—flyaways? Not a chance. They're sleek and neatly gelled into place. With a determined focus, I search into my compartment, fingers dancing over the makeup collection until I find my trusted L'Oréal mascara. Two swift strokes on my lower lash line and a thin layer of pink lip gloss are applied, followed by a quick press of my lips together to evenly distribute it. I’m ready to go. 

As I swing my legs out of the driver's side door, my white Converse sneakers seem to propel me forward, racing toward the doorstep as if in sync with my pounding heart. I gracefully leap over his red stone doorsteps, and with a swift twist of the screen door knob, I inadvertently trigger the arrival of four more paws skidding across the hardwood floor. My legs are immediately besieged by the enthusiastic wet noses and warm, slobbery licks of the energetic dogs. His unique greeting takes the form of a groan echoing from the kitchen in response to the chaos happening in the foyer. Meanwhile, the inviting scent of buttered dough and Hershey's milk chocolate wafts through the hallway, drawing me deeper into his humble abode. Is he baking? Interesting. 

After a few affectionate pats on Teeney's head, I weave my way through the lively pack of dogs, my sneakers gliding smoothly on his narrow hallway rug. The noise of barking and tail-wagging subsides as I near the kitchen, but they still trot behind me.

In the midst of the dimly lit kitchen, I find him with his back turned, elbows-deep in the chore of cleaning dishes. He's entirely engrossed in it. It's not difficult to see the signs of stress etched across his face—his brown eyes are wide as if bulging from their sockets, and his jaw clenched, muscles flexing with each scrub of the purple sponge in his meaty hands. 

"Hey," I sigh as if the mere act of getting ready for him had been a marathon in itself. The clatter of two plates meeting each other echoes in the kitchen as he drops them into the sink and twists the sink nozzle, gradually shutting off the water flow. His feet pivot in my direction, his torso following suit. His eyes slowly travel from my pink lips and down to my long yellow dress that bells outward near my feet. Instantly, the tension in his expression melts away, and his jaw unclenches, giving way to a warm smile. 

“I’m sorry I’m late,” I begin, my voice carrying a hint of contrition. He extends his open palms towards my sides, inviting me closer into the circle of his embrace. My head nestles against his chest, just below his neck, where his mouth meets my ear. "I ended up running six miles at the gym instead of four." It's not an outright lie—I did complete six miles, but we both know the real reason behind my tardiness.  

His fingers begin to rub soothing circles on my back, easing the tension from my muscles. "You smell a little too sweet for running six miles," he whispers. I scoff. Thanks for the backhanded compliment, doofus. His touch slowly unravels the knots of my nervousness. I slide my arms from his chest down to his stomach, lifting my head to meet his eyes. "This house smells a little too sweet for just getting back from your dad's house," I retort, playfully tapping the back of my hand against his chest. He returns the scoff I had given him. "You're right."

Reaching to his left, he snags a stack of chocolate chip cookies perched on the stove and sets them down on the white marble island behind me. "I made them only to make the house smell nice," he explains, his eyes rolling back in a mock display of exasperation. Jeez, man. The attitude he throws my way is enough to elicit an eye roll of my own. I rest my hands against the edge of the island, my fingers coming into contact with a Windex bottle, a stash of dust wipes, and paper towel rolls lined up behind it. A question nags at me—was he cleaning the house too? There's no way he made those cookies just for himself unless he made them for both of us.

He nudges the plate of cookies closer to me. "Have one."

My hand hesitates for a moment before it reaches for the top cookie in the stack. I snap the cookie in half from both ends, leaving him open-mouthed and momentarily stunned. Before he can react, I quickly interject, trying to defuse the situation. "Sharing is caring," I quip with a playful grin as I pass him the other half of the cookie. He straightens his shoulders, the brief surprise on his face giving way to acceptance. With a nod, he raises the cookie to his mouth, ready to take a bite - then pauses. “After you,” he says.   

His eyes trace the path of my front teeth as they break down a small corner of a chocolate chip and a piece of dough behind it. I close my eyes for a brief second, savoring every nuance of flavor that dances across my taste buds. Sugar Haven, as I decide to call it, is a delightful blend of salty and sweet, with the dough melting down creamy, yet its texture remains light enough to suit my sensitive stomach. I flick my eyes back to him, silently conveying my approval and inviting him to continue with his own bite. He opens his mouth, fitting the entire half-cookie inside, and together, we eat in silence. But his gaze remains on me as if seeking my verbal approval. I cover my mouth with my hand, still busy extracting the last stubborn bits of chocolate from between my teeth. "Wow, this is really good," I praise, my muffled words sincere. 

He tries to conceal the smile that's growing more prominent by the second. "I hope your run went crazy," he says. 

I finish swallowing and lean back against the island. "It did. I managed to maintain an 8-minute mile pace today.” 

His hands clap together in approval, momentarily startling Teeny, who's nestled on the kitchen floor beside my ankles. The dog jolts his head up, then quickly plops back down. "Great. Now you can reward yourself with another cookie," he quips. I glance down at Teeny, shaking my head with a chuckle. He's such a wise ass. I reach for the white paper towel roll next to the tray, slowly tearing a square along the pre-cut line, and place it flat on the countertop. He inches the cookie tray even closer to me, now treating it as though it's a fine glass of wine he's aerating. With a grin, I pick up another cookie and place it on the towel. 

“So, how was your dad’s?” I ask. 

It was good," he replies, his voice laced with a hint of hesitation. "Some of his buddies came over, and we had a couple of drinks." His voice trails off, "and had some long talks.” He drops his head, allowing his straight brown hair to sweep in front of his face as if he wishes he could retract those last few words. Interesting.  

“Talks about what?” 

He raises his head, rolling his eyes in the direction of the fridge, letting out a similar longing groan that he had given the dogs earlier. He walks a few feet away from me, his hands gripping the fridge door handles, swinging them forward. "Do you want anything?"

“What do you have?” 

His fingers tap rhythmically against the black shell of the fridge exterior, his gaze scanning the four filled shelves as though he's become our personal grocery shopper. "Corona, white claws, white wine," he lists off, pausing as he turns to face me, but I remain silent. He keeps the doors open, allowing the cool air to escape from the fridge. Realizing no answer was an answer, his eyes drifted back to the bottom shelf before him. “Um. We have apple juice if you’re into that.”  

I burst out into laughter. I don’t know if this man is on crack or what, but whatever he's on tonight is making him extremely sassy. “I’m into water. Thank you.”  

He nods without acknowledging my amusement, swiftly pulling out a six-pack of Miller Lite and slamming it onto the counter beside my paper towel plate with enough force that the vibration startles Teeney even more, causing the dog to leap up from my ankles and find solace on the family room couch. Damn. It's clear that the conversation with his dad must be a challenging one to discuss, or perhaps I've unwittingly opened a can of worms with my questions. He retreats back to the fridge. 

"My dad told me the story of how he met my mom," he whispers, his voice barely audible, as he opens the fridge doors once more. I break a piece off my cookie, aware that family is a sensitive subject for him, given his parents' divorce.

To avoid triggering any uncomfortable feelings, I choose my words carefully. "Oh, that's really sweet. Was it a good story?"

He sighs, his hands reaching for the Brita and pulling it close to his waist. He looks down at the Brita, avoiding eye contact as he steps toward the wooden cabinet above the kitchen sink. I keep my lips pressed together, giving him the space to share what he feels comfortable with.

“Good.” he finally replies, his eyes scanning an assortment of mugs. Pulling out a black chair from the kitchen table behind the island, I release the tension in my feet from standing. I glance up at him, only to find him completely absorbed in the act of pouring water from the Brita into a white mug. His thoughts seem to revolve around his recent conversation with his dad, and the weight of it is evident in the silence that hangs between us. There's something about it that appears to be tugging at him, although he hasn't spoken a word about it.

The room is so hushed that I can hear the dogs licking their paws behind me in the family room. When the water fills the mug to the brim, he sets the Brita aside.

"Do you believe in soulmates, Marissa?" he suddenly looks up at me, his gaze piercing, and the curiosity in his tone prompts me to provide a thoughtful response. A soulmate. I haven’t given that concept much thought before, but given his direct question, it’s clear it’s crossed his mind. 

“What’s your definition of a soulmate?”

He walks toward me, the white mug cradled in one hand, and deftly hooks his thumb, pointer, and middle fingers to the cardboard handles of the beer pack with the other, smoothly transporting it to the center of the kitchen table. "It's someone that just gets you," he begins, his voice carrying a hint of earnestness. "A soulmate is a connection of minds, marked by mutual respect, unconditional love, and spiritual understanding." With graceful ease, he lowers himself into a seat across from me, placing the mug onto a blue coaster on the table in front of me.

“Did you get that off of Google?”

He chuckles. “My dad got it off of Bing.”  

A soulmate? Hm. I don't think I believe that people are born into this world destined to find their other half because that suggests that the way people find their love is out of their control, and it lets thin air, or 'fate,' be the matchmaker and decide for them. I believe people choose their partners based on their past experiences and what they've learned from their community, and the quality or outcomes of their relationships are based on their self-perception. “I believe relationships form because individuals choose each other based on the qualities they admire and connect with. The way they stay together is because they make an effort for it to last—they communicate, they compromise, they sacrifice, and so on. I believe it's not because there's some higher power that made them inherently compatible to end up together." 

He nods his head slowly, the motion accompanied by the soft cracking of his knuckles. "It's an interesting topic for sure," he agrees. His subtle signs of nervousness in his demeanor make it clear that he holds a different perspective on the matter.

"My dad was just telling me that at the time he met my mom, he swore she was his soulmate," he continues, reaching for the pack of Miller Lite. He tears open the front of the pack, revealing a cold can nestled in his hands. "And he was our age when they met," he adds, his eyes widening as if he's shocked himself with that admission. He flicks the tab upward, triggering a satisfying crackling sound from the can as it opens.

I match his surprise, jolting my head back. “Like, 22 years old?” 

“Yeah, like 22 years old.” 

Another silence envelops the room, punctuated only by the sound of him slurping a large gulp of Miller Lite. The age he mentioned strikes a chord of familiarity—it's how my own parents first met.

"My parents also met at 22, and then they got married at 24. It's crazy to think about how socially acceptable it was back then to meet your person and settle down so quickly."

"Holy shit," he exclaims, his amusement evident as he smacks the beer can down onto a blue coaster across from my water. His thick eyebrows raise in intrigue. "How did your parents meet?"

I wish I had a grand and romantic tale to share, but my parents never really told me much about it. "They met each other through mutual friends in college," I explain with a shrug, realizing that the story lacks the drama or flair that might have been expected.

“Oh, nice. What colleges?” 

I grab the handle of the white mug. “My mom went to Arcadia for a psychology degree, and my dad was a chemical engineer at UPenn. I think they are neighboring schools in the same area.” 

He raises another eyebrow, recognizing the contrast in their fields of study. "But clearly different degrees."

"Yeah," I chuckle. "I guess opposites attract."

“Subtle flex on the ivy though.” 

I realize he's subtly shifting the focus onto me, trying to steer the conversation away from his own feelings about his dad's visit today. It's my turn to gently nudge us in a different direction. “How did your parents meet?” I take a sip of water.

"They met at a bar." I can hear the cracks in his voice, and it makes my stomach churn. The idea of people meeting at a bar and having it work out seems so improbable nowadays. It's a stark contrast to how people typically meet through dating apps. I find myself yearning for a more organic way of meeting someone, much like how I met him.

He continues. "My mom was a bartender, and one day, my dad walked into her bar with his friends. He sat down at the counter, and my mom turned around with a plastic empty cup in her hands. She asked him, 'What would you like to ordah?'"

I nearly spit out my water, struggling to hold back laughter. "Of course, you cue the thick Jersey accent for your mom," I tease. He grins, undeterred by my amusement.

"And my dad explained to me that the minute he laid eyes on my mom, it was like he got hit hard in the chest. He just knew. So, he ordered a drink. That same night, he ran back to his roommates and begged them to go out with him to the same bar the next day. Tomorrow rolled around, and they sat in the same booth. Once again, my mom asked him, 'What would you like to ordah?'"

I cover my mouth to prevent the ice in my mouth from spilling out. This guy is something else.

"Then the next day came," his voice takes on,  "and the next day after that. He hoped with each passing day that he could make her his. He couldn't get enough; he just wanted to talk to her and be around her."

That’s a really cute story, and even more admirable that he remembered those details. “What did she think of him at first?” 

He takes a sip of his beer. “She thought he was just some regular who just really liked Miller Lite.” 

I let out a laugh, shifting comfortably in my seat and eyeing the same beer can in his hands. "Is that why you like Miller Lite?" He nods his head and salutes his can in the air.

"And then they ran off into the sunset, and then they had me, and then they got divorced." His self-deprecating humor is a well-timed defense mechanism, and it's always in sync with him. It's tasteful, but I'm acutely aware that it's deeply rooted in his traumatic past. One wrong comment could trigger his emotional turmoil, so I prefer to steer clear of that territory, choosing instead to sugar-coat my response with a compliment. "That is one cute story though," I say with sincerity. "It almost sounds like it could come out of a movie. Like a classic."

"You can tell my dad that," he says with a sigh. "My dad asked me today, 'So, any girlfriends?' And I said, 'I am still single.'" He shakes his head in disappointment, taking another sip of his Miller Lite. There seems to be an expectation, perhaps an outdated one, for him to be in a serious relationship at this stage in his life. I admire how close he is with his dad and how much he looks up to him, but it's disheartening to see how he perceives his single status as letting his dad down. Times have changed, and so have society's expectations regarding dating and marriage. He shouldn't feel pressured to conform to a specific timeframe for meeting someone and getting married. While history can repeat itself, it doesn't necessarily apply to the process of meeting people. Each relationship is unique in its own way.

He continues. “The way my dad explained how he felt meeting my mom sent shivers down my spine. I can understand what he means when he says those things.” 

My ears perked up. “How so?” 

He directs his gaze to my red nails, resting flat against the table, and I can sense his mind working through the words he wants to share. He takes a deep breath and leans forward in his seat. “In high school, I remember you walking onto the pool deck at the Y and I had the feeling that I just had to talk to you.”  I can see a faint flush in his cheeks. It's a subtle change that makes me wonder if those "few drinks" he had at his dad's house are now finally settling in or if he truly means what he just said.

He continues. “Either it was the bright red bathing suit that was blinding my eyes or I just didn’t know what to say.”  I chuckle again. This is the third backhanded compliment he's offered me in the span of an hour. If he's comparing the feeling he had to how his dad felt and deemed his mom a soulmate, similar to how he felt meeting me, does he consider me one of his? How many sips of his Miller Lite did it take for him to say that?

My amusement bubbles over, and I scoff, giving his foot a teasing kick beneath the kitchen table. He responds with an exaggerated wince as if I've inflicted a great injury on him. A big smile spreads across his face as he pretends to baby his knee from the imaginary mark I left on his skin. He continues once more, "so I said the first thing that came to my mind.”  Ah. North American birds. 

But then another thought began to shape my mind. Just because you have an initial “feeling” about someone does not mean they’re your soulmate. The concept of a soulmate, from a biological standpoint rather than a spiritual one, suggests that the feeling of familiarity might arise because you share similar traits with that person. And, come to think of it, he had said things like that to me before.

Thinking back to when he took me to get Dairy Queen at Kenvil Lake at age 17,  my head was in the ice cream like there was no tomorrow, getting drips on my palms and making myself look like a messy eater. He was sitting there, still and attentive. But there was a sparkle in his eye, and a light giggle escaped from him. He pointed to the upper right corner of my lips with his index finger and said, "You have a little something on your mouth," before handing me a napkin from the cup holder in his car. I fold the corner of it, inch upward to his rearview mirror, and erase the resulting clumsiness from the holes in my lip. In my reflection, he still just sitting there, quiet and motionless. His eyes traced the napkin as it went from my lips to my fingers, then watched me crumble it up into my hands. It was a fascinating show to him. Once I lowered myself back into his passenger seat he took a breath, and said, "I don't know if this is going to sound weird, but I feel like I already knew you before." I almost choked on my ice cream when he blurted that out. At that point, we had only known each other for two weeks. Normally, I wouldn't have felt comfortable eating ice cream so candidly in front of someone new. His demeanor reminded me of someone familiar, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it.

His soft voice pulled me out of the trip down memory lane, and I found myself back in the present, facing the five-foot-eleven, broad-bodied guy in black Adidas joggers and a snug blue band t-shirt. "I haven't felt that way about anyone in college though," he admitted, his eyes dropping slightly.

Once more, the room fell into a contemplative silence. It was as if he believed that the connection we had initially shared didn't quite count in the grand scheme of things. But I couldn't help feeling grateful, regardless of labels or statuses, that I had the chance to know him. "I'm glad you said something to me back then," I responded sincerely. "I wouldn't have met you if you hadn't spoken up." I consider myself lucky because he had taught me so much about myself up until that moment. Even now, after the fact, he taught me so much about life. 

“I agree.” his response was quick as he kicked me gently under the table, pulling back from the depth of the conversation.