Roxie, busy with a teenager who was having a hard time measuring out the right amount of mix per cup, looked over at me and mouthed, “You okay?”

I just nodded and kept mixing the lumpy mess in my bowl. The bananas were stinky, and was it supposed to be bubbling?

“If your mix is ready, pour it into the tins and we’ll get them in the oven. Holler if you need a hand.”

I turned the bowl over the loaf pan and waited. The mixture oozed out slowly, dropping into the pan in a congealed glop.

“I’m pretty sure it’s not supposed to look like that, Pinup,” Oscar said, poking it with a wooden spoon.

“It’s fine,” I said, slapping the spoon away with my own. “I’ve never been a big fan of baking. Or cooking. Or grilling.”

I brushed past him, taking my pan to the kitchen. Roxie joined me, waiting until the room was clear before asking, “How’re you doing?”

She looked down at the pan and didn’t have to ask again. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kept pushing you to come to one of these. It’s just that everyone has fun, and I wanted you to—”

“Rox, it’s fine. I’m having fun, and now having experienced it, I have a new angle for my campaign.”

“Zombie Pickle class will be part of it?” she said, surprised.

“Yeah, it might not be the front page of a travel brochure, but it’s definitely included.”

As our boys joined us, Oscar kissed me sweetly on the cheek, then his eyes went wide and he pointed to the bank of ovens. “Rox, you got a problem there.” The oven that contained my loaf pan was pouring smoke out of the front.

“Shit! Grab the extinguisher just in case.” She donned two pot holders while running over.

It wasn’t as bad as the smoke made it seem. Apparently my loaf pan was too full and overflowed onto the floor of the oven. She pulled out the pan and dropped it onto the counter, and waved off any smoke that her exhaust fans didn’t get.

My banana nut bread was neither banana-y nor nutty, but it was very much misshapen and inedible.

“Good thing I hate bananas,” I joked, feeling a pressure in my chest when Oscar looked over.

“Remind me to keep you away from my grill,” he said with a laugh when he poked the bread brick. “I can’t believe you’re this bad at cooking.”

A lump formed in the back of my throat. “I told you I was this bad. I just wanted to try something new.” The last time I’d tried to cook for someone, anyone, was Thomas . . . Ugh. Not going there.

“Natalie, I’m just teasing you,” he said, leaning in to kiss my cheek. “Not all women can cook.”

Logically, I know he didn’t mean anything by it. But I wasn’t feeling logical right now: I wanted to have cute muffins like everyone else. I could have tried harder, I could have listened better, but—

Fuck that. Natalie Grayson wasn’t a Susie Homemaker. And I wasn’t ever going to be.

“Don’t worry, I’ll share my muffins with you,” he offered, draping his arm over my shoulder. He looked proud when Roxie pulled his tray out of the oven.

They were perfect. For all the screwing around he and Leo did throughout the class, they managed to not fuck it up. The muffins were light golden brown and smelled fantastic. Had Missy taught him how to bake?

Jealousy wasn’t something I liked to experience. Add in my failure of the evening, and I was downright cranky. And what was this other feeling, making the backs of my eyes burn? Suddenly I wanted to be at home, in my apartment, ordering takeout and not feeling all the feels.

“You know what, I’m not feeling that well. I think I’m going to head back into the city.”

Oscars eyebrows rose. “Now?”

“Yeah, can you run me back to the station? I can be at home and in bed by eleven. Do you mind?”

“Well, no, I mean of course I want you to feel better, but I thought that we’d get a chance to—”

“Not tonight. I need to go home,” I interrupted, not sure why I needed to so badly, but home right now sounded like a better place to be.

His disappointment spoke volumes, and part of me really wanted to explain. But how could I when I didn’t know exactly what I was feeling? It was hard enough figuring out my own shit, let alone having to worry about how he might take it.

As I gathered my things, Roxie handed out the trays labeled with the students’ names. It was little touches like that that I wanted to make sure I included.

As she hugged me good-bye she said, “We can make something else next time you’re in town.”

“I’ll pass,” I said firmly, and kissed her on the cheek. “This class is fucking fantastic.”

She nodded thanks, looking like she wanted to ask me what was going on, but knowing me well enough to leave it alone.

Oscar drove me to the station, I kissed him good-bye, and was back in my bed by eleven as promised. Though I didn’t fall asleep for a long time . . .

Over the next week I thought about what had happened at the cooking class, and I wanted to do something to make it up to Oscar. And I think I knew just the thing . . .

“It’s just like babysitting,” I told Roxie over the phone.

“It’s a hundred percent not just like babysitting.”

“But it could be—it’s just a matter of rebranding it.”

“Then call Clara to babysit your boyfriend’s cows! She’s the rebranding expert.”

“First of all, Clara can’t babysit cows; she doesn’t have the necessary skill set. Second of all, I resent you insinuating that she’s the only rebranding expert around—I’m an expert, too. Third of all, he’s not my boyfriend.”