No One Wants Your Muffins, Joyce

“Mommy, did you know if you fell into a black hole—”

“—you’d get stretched out like spaghetti and crushed into nothing?” I say, reaching for the coffee.

Atlas nods. “Exactly. Spaghettification.”

It is 7:13 in the morning.

I have not earned this conversation yet.

Most children wake up asking for cereal. Mine wakes up contemplating the violent collapse of space and time.

Across the kitchen, Leo stomps in wearing a glow-in-the-dark cape and rain boots.

He’s a dragon today.

“We need a moat.”

“We need money.”

“We can use your credit card.”

I make a mental note to hide my wallet.

Then I see her.

Joyce.

Power-walking up the driveway in pastel sneakers, carrying her usual tray of muffins like this is perfectly normal behavior at 7 in the morning.

I immediately crouch below the window.

“Get down.”

Leo drops to the floor without hesitation.

Ride or die.

Atlas studies me for a second. Then lowers himself carefully beside us.

“Is this another avoid-the-neighbors drill?”

“Yes.”

The three of us sit on the kitchen floor while the dishwasher hums.

Outside, Joyce climbs the porch steps.

A moment later, I hear the knock.

Soft.

Friendly.

Persistent.

The kind of knock from somebody who genuinely enjoys people.

This is what still catches me off guard about Texas.

In New York, your neighbors can hear you crying through the walls for three years and never mention it. You can ride the same elevator with somebody every morning for a decade and know nothing about them except that they own a dog.

Texas is different.

Texas believes neighbors should know each other’s names.

Texas believes baked goods are a valid form of communication.

Another knock.

Atlas tilts his head toward the window.

“She appears committed.”

Exactly. Because Joyce never just drops something off.

Joyce arrives.

When we first moved into the neighborhood, she came over to “quickly introduce herself.”

Forty-five minutes later, I knew who was divorced, who wasn’t speaking to their sister, whose fence violated HOA standards, and why a trampoline nearly divided the community.

To this day, I still don’t fully understand what happened with that trampoline.

Another knock.

Then silence.

Not regular silence.

Suburban silence.

The kind where you know somebody is still standing on the porch smiling. Waiting. Believing in the goodness of human connection.

I wait.

Atlas waits.

Leo pretends to breathe fire.

Finally, I risk a glance through the blinds.

Gone.

“Is she still there?” Atlas whispers.

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Nope.”

I stand and open the door.

The muffins are sitting on the welcome mat.

Of course they are.

Blueberry.

Still warm.

I should throw them away on principle.

Instead, I take a bite.

Then another.

I stare across the street toward Joyce’s house.

“Damn.”

Joyce can bake.