“What are you doing up?” she asked, instead of wiping the flour off Miriam’s face and then leaning her up against the counter for a kiss, which is what she wanted to do.
Miriam startled, and her eyes widened.
“What?” Noelle asked.
“You’re standing under the mistletoe,” Miriam choked out. Noelle flashed her a grin. She wasn’t the only one thinking about kissing. She looked up, deliberately, at the mistletoe, and then moved out of the doorway toward the kitchen counter. This was where she’d first seen Miriam, but now their spots were reversed.
Miriam watched her approach before turning her attention back to the massive butcher block under her hands. “A Thing To Do,” she began, “when one is trying to distract oneself from a breakup or avoid one’s feelings of having failed one’s family, is to bake.”
Noelle noticed how she spoke like she was thinking about her feelings, instead of feeling them.
“I’m a Rosenstein,” Miriam continued, as if that was a full explanation. It was, Noelle supposed.
“So you’re making cookies? With…fig jam?” She looked more closely.
“These are poppyseed rugelach,” Miriam gestured, “which are pastries, not cookies. From the secret family recipe that is only available in the Rosenstein’s flagship storefront, and only during Hanukkah. They are made of magic, and I was craving them.”
“Processing the breakup, huh? Also I know what rugelach are, please. I’m not new.” She reached over the counter to where Miriam had made a pot of coffee and filled a cup for herself. Miriam dolloped the exact right amount of cream in it for her, and there were those feelings, again.
“Do you have secret breakup rituals?” Miriam asked, waving Noelle over to her side of the counter. “Here, spoon filling in this batch then I’ll show you how to roll them.” She scooted over bowls and carefully arranged dough, creating a second station so they could work side by side.
“I listen to Soul Asylum’s ‘Runaway Train’ on repeat until I’m so sick of myself that I have to get my shit together,” Noelle said as she carefully portioned out poppyseed spread.
“Does it work?” Miriam laughed, leaning over to roll the pastry carefully. She watched Noelle copy her movements and nodded her approval. When their arms brushed, Noelle’s heart raced.
“It’s at least less self-destructive than the way I used to get over breakups, which was getting blackout drunk,” Noelle pointed out. She tucked one of Miriam’s errant curls behind an ear. Miriam licked her lip and ducked her head. Noelle felt a surge of victory that she was getting to Miriam just as much as Miriam was to her.
“I’m glad you’ve moved on to moody nineties rock,” Miriam said softly. “Solid choice.” She held a clean spoon with fig filling up to Noelle’s mouth to taste. Noelle tried to remember what they were talking about. Oh, right, breakups—because Miriam was in the middle of a big one and didn’t need Noelle to move on her, immediately after saying she wouldn’t.
She was watching Miriam roll pastry, mesmerized by the movement of her hands, when Miriam surprised her by saying, “When I was fighting with my mom, you said you understood having a complicated relationship with your parents, but I didn’t realize…” She shook her head. “Anyway, I thought you were just trying to tell me what to do. I didn’t realize you’d lost your parents, without getting to reconcile. I’m sorry. And thank you, for not telling me I should reconcile with my dad, because I might regret it otherwise. I get that a lot.”
“Are we really going to talk about our parents right now?” Noelle grimaced.
Miriam shrugged. “I’m trying to get to know the woman behind the suspenders. You know all about my demons.”
Noelle conceded that they might be uneven in the sharing of personal secrets department. “No one cuts their parents off lightly, and I don’t think we’re put on this Earth to spend time with people who are shitty to us, just because we’re kin. I wish I’d reconciled with mine, maybe, but I don’t know what I would have done differently. I still would have gotten sober, still would have drawn boundaries. I definitely shouldn’t tell other people what to do about their parents, which I was doing, by the way, because I’m nosy. I’m sorry about that.”
“Honestly, I’ve been hoping all my life that someone would tell me what to do about my parents.” Miriam laughed a little caustically.
Noelle tried to figure out how to explain something she rarely talked about with anyone. “Sometimes I wish I had more time, or more closure, just because I’ve spent so much time since they died trying to prove them wrong or prove that I’m not them. If they were here, I might be able to just live, instead of reacting to them.”
“What do you mean?” Miriam had scooted up onto the counter and was leaning forward, listening.
“My parents did a lot of promising they would do things, be places, then not following through, because they were drunk, and that’s what drunks do.” Noelle kept spreading jam on pastry, so she didn’t have to look at Miriam.
“And that’s why you try to always show up for people?” Miriam guessed.
“I think so. And maybe part of me thinks I just wasn’t a good enough daughter, but if I can be perfect for everyone else, I won’t get left again.” This was incredibly uncomfortable to admit. Could they go back to talking about Miriam’s problems, now?
Miriam hopped down off the counter, brushing her hands on her apron, leaving big streaks of flour. “Thank you for telling me that. You seem so stable. It’s nice to know you’re a mess, too, in some ways. I like messy you. She’s pretty great.” Miriam smiled shyly.
Noelle looked down into her face, trying to receive the gift of those words. Shewasa mess, and she was always trying to hide it. Could Miriam actually like her messy side? The idea of someone seeing her poorly repaired cracks and still wanting to kiss her was…nearly irresistible.
Miriam Blum made her want dangerous things.
She shook her head, trying to stop from building castles in the sky, populated by princesses with giant hair. Miriam might be alluringly supportive in this middle-of-the-night tête-à-tête, but that didn’t mean Noelle needed to dump all her baggage on the woman (and then kiss her in the middle of Mrs. Matthews’s kitchen).
“How long do these take to bake?” Noelle asked, to distract herself.