by Malcom, Anne
No, they shopped for what they wanted, what their kids wanted.
Whereas I was pushing around a sparsely and strategically full small cart of off brand products, whatever fruit and veggies were on sale that week, clutching coupons and doing mental calculations in my head as every new item landed in the small cart.
Nathan, the angel that he was, sensed my quiet panic about going grocery shopping. So, unlike other children, he didn’t run up and down the aisles, picking up things he wanted, or begging me for all sorts of treats.
He walked in step with me, chattering about whatever he’d learned in school that day, a cool cloud he’d seen, or his new goal of farming ants.
I loved that little dude for so many, infinite reasons, but the supermarket thing nearly broke my heart. So, usually, I’d find a way to sneak a candy bar or something into the basket and slip it into his lunchbox the next day.
I was not in charge of this grocery trip, as Lance made clear by wheeling the large cart right into the fruit and vegetable section.
I pursed my lips to stop myself from saying anything about the cart, though the gesture was not needed, my pride shut me up plenty.
“Get the shit you need for the guac,” Lance said, snatching pre-made salads from the chiller.
Again, I had to purse my lips to stop myself from saying that the pre-made salads were grossly overpriced and the ingredients for salads were cheaper and would go further.
I went and got the shit I needed for the guac, looking for the cheapest variety of tomatoes, onions, and avocados.
By the time I made it back to the cart with my careful selections, the cart was already a quarter full. My eyes went wide with everything Lance had dumped into it while I was trying to find the best avocado.
Meats of varying kinds, more salad ingredients, some pastries from the bakery section. Huge bottles of iced tea, both sweetened and unsweetened. Sodas. Fresh bread. Pretty much the makings of an epic barbeque.
And bankruptcy for me.
I opened my mouth to say something, but Lance beat me to it.
“You’re not a vegan or some shit, are you?”
I snapped my head up from the cart to focus on him. He’d hooked his sunglasses in the front of his tee, in a way that looked both effortless and incredibly sexy. His expression was blank, hard, if anything, a little impatient.
He pretty much looked like a man who would rather be anywhere but here, not a man who had all but accosted me—at the very least, accosted my purse—in order to get here.
I tried to think of all the places a man like Lance would like to be than grocery shopping with the single mother who had a crappy car, butt sweat, a violent ex, and an adorable kid.
A gym, by the looks of his body.
Likely some trendy, edgy, masculine loft in downtown LA with sparse furniture and some weights in the corner—where I imagined he lived.
Or some in between some slim and tanned twenty-year-old legs. Beautiful, big hair, an easy smile, no baggage, able to do things like buy groceries without having a panic attack and emptying her bank account.
“Elena,” he said my name with more of that impatience that edged his eyes and yet my stomach dipped at the way my name sounded coming out of his mouth.
I jerked when I realized I hadn’t answered his question, instead I’d just stared at him, likely with a blank gaze and a slack jaw.
“No, I eat meat. I love meat of all kinds,” I said quickly, my mind taking three whole seconds to catch up to my mouth and realize what I’d just said.
My cheeks went hotter than the ones inside my white shorts.
Lance didn’t even blink. Obviously he was laughing on the inside. At me. The grown-ass woman who had no control over her sweat glands or her words.
“Allergic to gluten, dairy? On some crazy diet you pretend you’re allergic to it?” he continued.
I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak this time.
I wasn’t allergic to anything, especially not gluten or dairy, thankfully. My diet consisted of mostly those things, considering they were some of the cheapest. Also, bread was happiness. Anyone who didn’t eat it for reasons that weren’t medical was insane.
“Good,” was all he said before he moved the cart forward.
I followed him, rather helplessly, as he heaped various name brand foodstuffs into the cart, much like those Lululemon housewives, but with a lot more manly force and sex appeal.
The housewives were all but banging into each other as we passed them, everyone gaping, staring at Lance. Then at me. Likely they were trying to figure out what happened in the universe to make a man like that go grocery shopping with a woman like me.
I had given up on even trying to say something about the sheer amount of expensive food that now filled the cart. I was already planning on using the ‘in case of super-duper emergency’ credit card that I never used. As desperate as times sometimes got, I didn’t want to get myself into a hole of debt I couldn’t get out of. I also didn’t want to find myself in a position where I had no backup apart from asking Eliza and Karen for money.
Which they would give to me in a heartbeat.
Which was why I’d never ask.
I figured this credit card was probably going to be seeing a lot more use considering I’d be swiping it at the Greenstone Security office and be spending the rest of my life paying it off. But it was payments I’d be making gladly with my son at home with me.
“You drink?” Lance asked me after he’d put a box of beer into the cart, somehow finding room amongst the decidedly awesome foods he’d chosen for tonight. Most of which I’d only coveted in other people’s carts and never brought home with me.
Nathan would be so excited.
And that was worth it.
“I have a five-year-old, an abusive ex-husband and a shitty job,” I told him with a raised brow. “Of course I drink.”
Something moved, slightly, almost imperceptibly in his face, something that might have been amusement, but it disappeared too quickly to tell.
“Wine or beer?” he asked.
“Wine,” I replied. “I’m not really fussy with what kind, as long as it has an alcohol content and doesn’t taste like vinegar if it’s red.” My secret weapon was the ‘Two Buck Chuck’ from Trader Joe’s that was $2.99 a bottle and tasted excellent to my unrefined palate. But Trader Joe’s was a thirty-minute drive away, so it made the wine decidedly more expensive when you factored in gas prices.
Lance looked at me for a second longer than was regular with him, and regular was already plenty long, then he directed the cart to the wine.
I followed him, but because my gait was dreamy and stilted, I made it to him just as he was putting three bottles of wine into the cart.
Three, beautiful bottles of Cab Sav I’d stared at on the top shelf before I’d reached down and got my five buck bottles.
The bottle that cost thirty bucks a pop.
And there was three of them.
“Wait, as much as my life is somewhat of a mess right now, even I can’t drink that much wine,” I said, picking up one of the bottles and intending to put it back on the shelf, ready for a woman in expensive leggings to pick up.
“I’m not refined enough to appreciate such an expensive bottle. I’m good with the cheap stuff it—”
I was cut off by a hand on my wrist. The hand that was reaching toward the shelf, intending on putting the wine back.
The very same hand that had been on my wrist not thirty minutes ago, but somehow the effect was just as jarring. I reasoned Lance’s touch was something that no one could get used to.
I moved my eyes to his.
They were hard, stormy.
“Bottle’s thirty bucks, Elena,” he said.
I nodded slowly. “I’m aware, which is why I’m putting it back.”
“Thirty bucks, it’s not expensive.”
I gritted my teeth, shame embodied in the heat and I was sure the redness in my cheeks. Again, like his comment
about my face, there was no malice or judgment in the words, but it sparked malice and judgement that I harbored for myself.
“Yes,” I said through my gritted teeth. “Thirty bucks, three times is ninety. Considering I’ll personally only drink about two glasses because I’m a lightweight and because I don’t feel comfortable having anything more when I’m taking care of my son, and that Eliza and Karen will likely bring their own because they’re wine snobs. Rosie has already informed me—by text, even though I never gave her my number—that she’s bringing the makings for margaritas, which I don’t drink, so unless any of you big badasses prefer a full-bodied red then two and a third of these thirty-dollar bottles are going to waste,” I said, expelling a breath after I spoke, because I’d all but spewed those words out while forgetting to breathe. And I still wasn’t done.
“Furthermore, I’m a single mom on a waitress’s salary with a hefty bill to a fancy security company on my horizon,” I continued. “I’m not spending a hundred bucks on something that is completely unnecessary and selfish.”
Lance didn’t speak after my little monologue, nor did he let go of my wrist, the grip only tightened as I got more steam to continue ranting.
I bit the inside of my lip in order to keep staring at him without looking away or blinking, he was obviously trying to have some sort of stare contest with me to establish his dominance.
For whatever reason, I was going to fight.
I didn’t fight when my husband yelled at me, called me a whore for wearing cutoffs to a Fourth of July barbeque, when he hit me after we got home from that barbeque or when he forced himself on me later that night.
But I was fighting a relative—albeit one I had a totally inappropriate crush on— stranger in the middle of a grocery store over wine, of all things.
It seemed that Lance awakened something inside of me, other than word vomit and butt sweat.
So I didn’t back down.
In no world did I think I would win a staring contest with anyone. I lost against Nathan on an almost daily basis. But something in me broke, right there in the wine aisle, I’m not quite sure what. The events of the past few days, the exhaustion of the past few years got to me in a way that gave me strength enough to win a staring contest with a badass who looked like he waterboarded infidels for a living.
His grip left my hand and like last time, I felt an emptiness without his touch that made no sense and that definitely wasn’t sane.
I was about to do an inward victory dance when the bottle of wine was snatched out of my loosened grip and placed not at all gently back into the cart.
“You’re not spendin’ a hundred bucks on the wine,” he said, all but barking at me. “I am.”
And before I could argue about how this was so not going to happen, he turned on his heel and pushed the cart away from me and the wine and toward the cash register.
Again, I lagged because I was kind of stunned, tired from everything I’d just said, angry, confused and turned on.
This meant by the time I found him, half of the cart was already unloaded and he was standing in front of the card machine like some kind of Greek statue.
I glared at him and pushed my way forward to the screen, schooling my reaction so my shock didn’t show at the total of only half of the items.
“I’m paying,” I said through gritted teeth, rifling through my purse for my wallet.
“You’re not,” he replied, not looking at me, his voice frustratingly even.
I took a breath, smiled fakely at the cashier who was staring between us with ill-concealed interest.
“This is food that will feed my guests,” I said, still rifling. How did he find my keys, which were comparatively tiny, when I couldn’t seem to locate my frickin’ wallet?
He had some kind of magical power over women and their purses.
It was the only logical solution.
“This food is for my guests, as a thank you for doing everything that they’ve done for me and Nathan,” I continued, glaring at him. “You are a guest. So let me thank you and stop being such an asshole.”
He raised his brow. “You’re thankin’ me and calling me an asshole in the same sentence?” he asked with an annoyingly even cadence to his voice.
I glared at him, finally finding my wallet in time for the cashier to scan the last of the items. “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m doing. Now move out of the way.”
He did not move out of the way, in fact, he only crowded the card machine more, so it was impossible for me to put my own card in the slot. Unless I got physical with him in a grocery store, in broad daylight, seemingly unprovoked.
It was tempting to do so, really freaking tempting.
Pretty much the only thing that stopped me was the fact I didn’t really trust my own strength and I deduced that trying to move him would result in me making an idiot of myself instead of achieving my goal.
Because of this, he was able to swipe his own card without hassle.
He barely even blinked at the total that took my breath away. Then again, I was sure his hazel eyes had seen a lot more disturbing things than a huge grocery bill.
I guess I should have been relieved at the fact someone else had paid for something I couldn’t afford. That I wouldn’t have to put myself in debt when I had plenty of debt on the horizon.
But I wasn’t.
I felt humiliated and ashamed at the fact he’d deemed me a charity case and had felt enough pity for me—somewhere deep down in the dark recesses of his soul—to pay for food that he would only eat a small portion of and wine he wouldn’t even be drinking.
Tears prickled the backs of my eyes as the bagger finished with the food and Lance grasped the cart and wheeled it off without comment. Because of all the things the seemingly kind gesture made me feel, it mostly made me feel like my parents. It reminded me of the many, many times at the supermarket when their card was declined and they put on the right expressions, shoved the hungry daughter in the faces of a cashier or fellow shopper and somehow guilted someone enough into helping them out.
It was a skill that they perfected and excelled at.
One that disgusted me on so many levels. Mainly because my parents had the money, thanks to them figuring out ways to cheat the system in order to get all sorts of benefits they weren’t entitled to.
But all that money went to booze, drugs, and in my father’s case, hookers.
Something I learned about early in life and that was sworn to secrecy with my father’s harsh words, threat and a purplish bruise on my upper arm that took almost two weeks to heal.
That memory and the thousands of others I had of my childhood were reasons why I never accepted things from others, even those who loved me and only wanted to help. I always found my own way. I did it honestly. Because I wanted to teach my son. I wanted to give him memories that wouldn’t cut him every time something reminded him of them.
And as I was following the brutal, beautiful man through the parking lot, back to my shitty car with no AC, him pushing hundreds of dollars of charity, pain, and memories, I was being cut. The knife sliced through layers of flesh, scar tissue, right to the core of me.
Every step I took I bit the inside of my cheek harder in order to stop myself from crying. From leaking out all my trauma and issues onto the hot concrete of the parking lot, to stop myself from exposing myself to Lance.
The ride back was silent again.
This time it was a thicker silence. Darker.
I wasn’t worrying about vanity, or the fact that Lance’s hand almost brushed my bare skin. I was torturing myself with memories. I was emotionally flagellating myself with the bitter and ugly truth of what I was.
Who I was.
My parents.
I couldn’t even provide for my son.
Worse, I couldn’t even keep him, or myself safe.
The man with the grim, devastatingly handsome face and terrifying disposition was doing that.
But I didn’t think he’
d keep me safe in the end.
Chapter Nine
I was happy.
It was that simple.
Anyone who’d lived a hard life would know that of all the complicated things in the world, happiness had the top spot.
Especially after the events of this afternoon, I would have told anyone that simple happiness was about as likely as me summiting Everest.
I underestimated the people around me. What good food, better company and a balmy evening could do.
Everyone from the diner had filtered in throughout the evening, after I’d texted them and informed them of the impromptu party.
The back yard had somehow been transformed only an hour after Polly and Rosie had arrived. Candles were lit, despite the fire hazard in California. I reasoned we had enough badasses around us to stop a fire before it began.
Fairy lights I’d never plugged in were strewn over the fence and turned on when the sun began kissing the horizon. Scents of beautifully charred meat filtered through the air, with Luke and Heath taking turns at manning the grill, with Bobby gleefully giving up the position. As good of a cook as he was—and he really frickin’ was—he existed on heat and eat meals and processed junk when he wasn’t working.
The Greenstone Security gang and their wives had begun to trickle in with the most perfect of timing, interrupting me having to tell Eliza what exactly was going on with Lance. Which was nothing, obviously.
Rosie, Lucy, and Polly brightened up the night, their energies warm and comforting. I felt as if I’d known them for years, and that I’d met them under different, happier circumstances. I had been so certain that everything attached to those twenty-four hours without Nathan would carry a horrifying reminder of what happened, even people. Especially people, because I would never have come into contact with these beautiful, glossy, foul-mouthed and kick-ass women in my regular life.
