Hey, what the hell did I do now? It’s all flat and shit,” Rob pulled his tray of cookies from the oven, exasperated.

“It’s because you melted the butter instead of using colder butter like the directions said, and put a dollar in my jar for swearing,” Sophia said as she grabbed a half empty jar of coins from the dusty shelf behind her. She gestured it towards Rob and shook it.

“It started off as a quarter,” Rob points out as he pulls his wallet from his back pocket, flipping through the bills to find a single. On his first offence, he offered to send money through an app because he didn’t carry cash. How she laughed heartily at him that time.

“Well, I have to shop for more ingredients now that you’re here messing up every other step. Besides, as you so gently put it, ‘quarters don’t go as far as they did 100 years ago, you old bat,’” she playfully mocked his nonchalant demeanor.

“I believe I called you an old bit-”

“Whoa now, or it’ll be another one,” She points a boney finger at him, then continues wiping down the countertop. “However much I would love to be a dollar richer,” she mumbles to herself.

A short pause fills the space between them as they each went about their tasks. He looked around the bare-bones kitchen to see what else needed cleaning up as he waited for the cookies to cool. In the beginning, Rob only ever thought about leaving. He’d pull out his phone to check the time. Then a minute later, as if he forgot, he’d pull it out again. His neck would strain to look out the window, fingers fidgeting on the ripped sofa, checking for his dad to recuse him. Rob suspected Sophia felt similarly at first; she would turn on the television and fumble through her purse, probably anticipating him leaving soon so she could take a long drag on a cigarette. He wished she’d give him one.

This is the first time Rob really took a hard look at her kitchen. Usually they were in the living room, or he was helping her with outdoor chores. It was small, but the perfect size for someone that lives alone. The counter space was minimal, and the floors were finished with a dirty green linoleum, unclear if the original color was a more vibrant green, or another color entirely. The oven was old, to put it plainly. It had rust on the outside, the door squeaked, and the pilot light was always out. He blamed the ancient oven for his cookie flop.

In an attempt at conversation, or possibly the start of an interrogation, Sophia asks him how school was going. He never knows the correct answer to that question when people ask, not that they often do. To say “good” wasn’t entirely accurate, but it also didn’t give away much detail to pick at. Anything else could be up for interpretation and follow-up questions.

Finally, going against his better instincts, Rob says, “It’s alright, but I think my math teacher has it out for me.”

“Why do you say that? Bad grades?”

“Ah, nevermind,” Rob mumbled, now checking the time on his phone. Ten minutes left. Thankfully, Dad is usually right on time.

“You brought it up. Heaven forbid I ask a follow-up question,” Sophia says. He knows she’s right, but doesn’t admit it.

“You automatically assume I’m getting bad grades, but have you thought I’m actually really good at math? You just think I’m a dumbass?” Rob retorted.

“Well are ya? Good at math, not the dumbass part.” She lifts a curious eyebrow and turns to him.

“No,” He says sheepishly. “But that isn’t the point, it’s that you assume I’m no good in school because of how I look or how I act. And you just swore! You owe me a dollar.”

“First off, I never said anything about your appearance or behavior, but that is a conversation for another time. Secondly, your swear and my swear cancel each other out. So you don’t owe and neither do I. It’s like in math when a positive number and a negative number of equal value are added and become a zero. See, just taught you something.” Sophia sounded a little smug when saying the last part.

“Unreal,” Rob shakes his head and turns his body away to pick at the cookies on the tray.

His urge to push away exceeded his desire for cooperation, like it usually did.

“Hey, kid, I was joking around with you, alright? I thought that’s what we did, but clearly I struck a nerve.” Sophia’s half-hearted apology hung in the air without anywhere to go.

Not feeling particularly receptive right now, Rob mumbles, “Sure, I’m going to wait for dad on the porch.”

Sitting on the front steps of the house, two birds caught his attention. They were rummaging in the front garden of the house across the street. Dust kicked up into each other’s faces, but neither seemed to mind as they went about their business.

Pulling away was automatic to him, but he hated feeling like he had little control over himself. It was like in cartoons where the character has two little versions of himself on his shoulder, a devil and an angel, telling him what to do. Except with Rob, it felt like the devil always won by physical force rather than persuasion.

Rob’s dad strolled up to the porch to walk him back home. According to his father, Robert Sr., Rob couldn’t be trusted to walk home alone, even though they lived only a few houses down the street.

“How’s the atonement going today?” Robert Sr. playfully slaps his son on the knee.

“Quit it.”

Robert Sr. shot his son an icy glance.

“Quit it, please,” Rob added.

“Not exactly what I was thinking. Let’s head out, c’mon.”

As the pair lazily walked down the street, Robert Sr. broke the silence, “So, have you formally apologized yet?”

“You mean even though I’ve been mowing her lawn, cleaning her disgusting bathroom, and repainting the outside of the house I messed up, I still have to come out and say ‘sorry’?”

It’s not that it was a lot of work for Rob to come out and say it, but it was the principal of the matter for him. He had been doing all of these deeds of good service and that wasn’t enough?

“Absolutely. To acknowledge is to bring closure,” Robert Sr. mused.

“Besides,” he continues, “you threw red paint all over the front of her fuckin’ house on a dare. You’re lucky I didn’t let her string you up by your toes for the neighborhood to throw garbage at you.”

~~

Feeling guilty about the day before, Rob decided to make an effort ignore the innate itching to be a closed-off brute. He only had one more mandated visit per his father’s arrangement with the old lady. Truth be told, Rob was becoming secretly fond of Sophia. He could never, and would never, admit that to anyone, least of all his “friends” that were in on the prank, but somehow avoided this slave labor punishment.

Unlike a lot of other teenage boys, Rob loved to indulge in gossip. It didn’t matter if it was in his school or celebrity crap, he was drawn to it like an addiction. He discovered Sophia also dipped her bunion-ridden feet into gossip as well, mostly local. One afternoon, Rob was dusting the top of a tall china cabinet when he noticed Sophia looking out the window. She wasn’t just watching the world go by, she was fixated on someone or something. He assumed she was going blind or senile, or both, but then she mumbled something about Mr. Rodriguez leaving Mrs. McCoy’s house at the same time of day for the fifth day in a row, suspiciously right before Mr. McCoy got home from work. Rob’s ears pricked up and he couldn’t help but climb off the step stool to peek out of the window with her. Sophia got him up to speed with neighborhood goings-on that day and he’s been hooked ever since. Rob looked forward to hearing Sophia’s run-down of the week, like a soap opera episode that left off on a cliffhanger. He appreciated that he could indulge this part of himself with her.

After school, Rob’s father walks him over to Sophia’s home for his final day of punishment. He’s not sure what to expect after how he abruptly ended the day yesterday. He climbs the stairs with heavy steps and picks up the old horse-shaped knocker and taps it on the door. Sophia promptly opens the door as if she was sitting by, waiting for him.

“You don’t have to knock anymore, kid,” Sophia waives her hand to gesture him in as she coughs and turns her head away. Rob thinks to ask her if she’s okay, but the moment has passed. Before he can give an apology – for yesterday and for the unwanted paint job – Sophia beckons him into the kitchen.

“Come on, I’ve got another recipe for us to try out. Good news, you’re supposed to melt the butter in this one,” Sophia teased.

He thinks she understands his reluctance to acknowledge his shortcomings and misdeeds and that this is her way of smoothing over the incident. Maybe she is the same, but he was thankful for it either way. A suppressed smile crossed his face.

They made muffins that afternoon and Rob found out he was pretty decent at baking after all. The odd pair found a rhythm in the kitchen. Being her kitchen and the more experienced baker, Sophia grabbed the ingredients and explained the “whys” and “how-tos” of baking. He found comfort in the conflicting nature of structure and creativity within baking.

He and Sophia chatted about nothing, yet it was everything to the youth. They exchanged his high school gossip for celebrity tabloid news that Sophia read about earlier that day. Nothing additional on the nefarious acts of her neighbors, unfortunately. Sophia found a pair of binoculars to enhance her voyeurism experience. Rob approved.

As they were tidying up, Rob remembered why he was there, “Wasn’t I supposed to start on your gutter today?”

A puff of air escaped her lips and she waved her hand in dismissal, “Eh, don’t worry about it. I got a guy that does that already – real handsome too!”

Rob shook his head, not knowing if he should chuckle at that or not (he did).

“Why the hell do you talk with your hands so much?”

“I’m Italian, dear,” she says matter-of-factly.

Rob didn’t fully understand the connection, but decided to leave it alone.

“Anyway,” Sophia continues, “I have something for you. Don’t make a big deal of it.”

She turns away and shuffles into her dining room. The piercing sound of dry wood on wood reverberates back into the kitchen as, Rob presumes, she opens the drawer to that ancient china cabinet. She returns with a small, rectangular ring-bound book and hands it to Rob with a straight arm. He takes it and peers at Sophia as if to convey with his eyes, what the hell is this?

“Go on, open it,” she encourages.

Rob opens the plain front cover to the first page. It’s a recipe book, handwritten, and the first page is the shortbread cookie recipe that Rob butchered yesterday. Underlined in red ink is the part about using cold butter. Rob playfully shook his head at that. He thumbs through the rest of the book to find a couple of other baking recipes. Some of which he’s seen Sophia make before and let him sample. The rest of the book was blank.

“What’s this for?”

“Just because. Thanks for your help, too. I think you’ve made more improvements than destruction around this hole,” she gestures broadly around the room. “Besides, I want you to fill up that book. Remember what I showed you.”

“Wow,” Rob choked.

“Now, I told you not to make a big deal of it,” she points a finger at him. “I know I’m some decrepit, boring hag to you, but maybe I can keep showing you some stuff.”

Rob paused before responding. He’s not entirely sure why a gift so simple elicited such an emotional response. His dad was around him because he legally had to and gave him the essentials. The other relatives distanced themselves away after Rob flushed a pair of earrings, a priceless family heirloom, down the toilet on purpose, their final straw. His friends, though he’s not sure he can call them that anymore, have given him nothing but abandonment.

“Thanks. Really. And sure, I can come over again,” he played it cool, but protectively clutched the book with both hands. He was already thinking about tomorrow.

~~

13 years later.

When Rob returns home, he tosses his keys on the dish in the foyer and takes off his jacket to reveal a black sport coat and tie. After he hangs up his coat, he fumbles in the pocket to take out a memorial card he snagged at the funeral service on his way out the door. On one side was a prayer, and the other was the face of his long-ago companion, Sophia, aged about forty, though she was ninety years old when she passed.

He takes the card and walks into his kitchen to the bookshelf, which is filled with various cookbooks. Soon, he’ll be adding a new book to the shelf, one with his name printed on the cover.

He fingers through the bindings until he finds a small rectangular book and pulls it from the shelf. It’s the recipe book. His first, given to him by Sophia. He takes the memorial card and places it amongst the pages. He decides the dedication of his new book will read: for Sophia.