by Grace, Pella
I place my hand in his expecting a shake … but … slowly he lifts my hand, brings it to his lips and kisses my skin, lightly. Cash pulls back, eyebrows knitted together as he thinks.
“Angels?” He guesses at my perfume.
I smile instantly. “Yes. It’s my favorite.”
“Mine too,” he whispers.
I am released.
Cash goes back to working, stacking the fruit in neat piles. He and Heath toss boxes at each other and joke around. I pretend I am picking out a cantaloupe, sniffing each one, smelling nothing. Just watching. Burning this into my memory so I can carry it home with me and replay it over and over.
Chapter Four
I want to scream for him to leave.
Adam has been hanging around the house for the last two days, doing nothing but getting in my way. Why the sudden impulse to take two days off from work? Why! He isn’t even doing anything other than making a damn mess everywhere he goes. A trail of empty Coke cans. Crumbs all over the counter. An empty box of cereal he has finished off and left behind. The God damn milk is still out! I grab the jug and press my palm to the plastic, feeling it has gone warm.
“We’re out of cereal,” Adam comments, coming into the kitchen, looking like a slob. No shirt and his jeans falling around his waist, showing the top of his torn underwear.
“Adam, wear the new underwear I bought and toss those in the trash, please?”
He scratches his belly. “These are already broken in.”
He’s digging in the fridge. “Man, do you ever shop? I can’t find shit to eat in this place.”
Are you serious? That’s all I do. And you sure as shit don’t look starved. Tubba-Wubba.
I close my eyes. “I always ask you what you’d like me to get you when I go shopping and you always say whatever I choose is fine.”
He closes the fridge. “I’m going to Danny’s house. Game is on, anyhow. His wife usually cooks us hot wings.”
Stab me in the heart, prick.
Good, leave. I wanted you gone.
I listen to the sound of his car starting. Watch through the window as he pulls out of the driveway.
The only thing worse than wanting someone gone, is wanting them here when they were. Present in the moment, you know?
You’re not alone, but hell yeah I am. I’ve never wanted someone’s arms around me while wanting to push them away so badly. I crave his affection, but I swear my whole body folds in on itself as soon as he gets within a few inches of me.
I must be going insane. Maybe it’s all the resentment taking over.
My feet wander the empty halls of this house. Again and again. Why did I wish for him to leave? I have nothing of great consequence to do now that he is gone. The fridge stares at me.
“Nothing here to eat,” I grumble, opening the door to an entire feast. You could live in this house for a month and eat like a king—literally—every day and night.
I swipe the car keys from the hook at the door and head to Valentine’s. I’m not dressed in anything special. Stretch-pants and an old worn-out tee. I’m not going there to find strangers to bring home for sex. I’m just … going. Something about walking the aisles and creating dishes in my head. I don’t know. It soothes me the way my husband won’t.
A group of Girl Scouts bombard me before I reach the entrance doors.
“Yeah-yeah. Here’s twenty bucks, give me the mint ones.”
They hand over a bag of cookies and thanks. Smiles all around. Yippee.
I walk through the automatic doors and grab a basket, placing my cookies inside of it. My flip-flops do that annoying thing after a floor has been waxed, making that super squeaky annoying-ass sound that seems to grab everyone’s attention and snickering. To make this the perfect ending to an already shit day—the store is playing Mariah Carey songs over the speaker system.
I stare at frozen pizzas with anger not even a crappy frozen pizza deserves.
Mariah’s “Heartbreaker” song forces me to remember that hideous time I swore to forget. Summer of ninety-nine … why did I think it was a good idea to rip the top banding off all my jeans and wear crochet tops? With matching hot pink nail polish?
Adam looked at me like I had two heads. Not quite what I had intended on. Maybe the hot-pink, glittery stilettos was a bad pairing. Maybe.
I move down the aisle, in search of my friend Jerry and his culprit.
“Gimme your love …” I begin to mumble, swaying side-to-side as I decide between Schweddy Balls and Baked Alaska.
“Fight with lame chicks blow my day—” I sing along. I can’t help it. “Heartbreaker … you got the best …” I stomp my foot, realizing what I’m doing. “Damn this song!”
It’s like it invades your better judgment and robs you blind.
I pick the pint of ice cream out of the cooler. Shweddy Balls. I’m going with that. Genius whoever thought of that name. Schweddy Balls. Wish it had been me.
Next stop: Potato Chip Land.
“Gimme your love …”
I round the corner and seek out some Cape Cod goodness. Kettle-cooked chips. Uh, the bee’s knees! Right?
I pause, debating between cracked pepper, or salt and vinegar.
Glance to my left. “Gimme your love …” Slowly to my right.
The coast is clear. My flip-flops squeak terribly as I put myself back in the summer of ninety-nine. I’m rocking a pink crochet top and bad-decision-waist-cut-off-jeans. Those hot pink fingernails.
I start with just a little hip swaying. But shit, Mariah takes it to the bridge and I can’t seem to find my better judgment. It has blown away like the crochet top should have. This song should be considered some type of psychological warfare.
I lift my finger and twirl it above my head, screeching like a loveless banshee. I slide along the aisle, doing the stupid hip rolling thing that video taught me. I bend over and slide my hands up my legs and tip on my toes pretending I am wearing the equally-bad-choice glittery stilettos. At this point—let’s face it—I have zero respect or I give a crap, left to lose.
“Why’d you have to run your game on me … I should have known right from the start that you’d … go ... and …”
I stop immediately.
My basket drops to the floor.
Hand over my mouth.
Heart beating faster than a jackrabbit in heat.
The Produce Gem grins from halfway down the chip aisle. “And I thought the cucumber choosing was detailed.”
Cash.
He was watching.
He saw me breaking it down.
He saw my invisible bad summertime fashion choices.
Ayn Rand taught me there’s only one thing to do in a situation like this. I raise my arms and bellow in utter haste, “Who is John Galt!”
The poor Schweddy Balls gets left behind, as me and my flip-flops run away, loudly squeaking toward the automatic doors.
Chapter Five
After the Mariah Carey highly embarrassing dance episode, I planned on never returning to Valentine’s Grocery for the remainder of my humble existence.
Unfortunately, Adam happens to favor their store brand ice cream. He’s been bugging me for three weeks. Three weeks.
Today, he finally broke this horse.
The automatic doors greet me with a cold whoosh of air as I step inside. Cash is ringing up a woman, toward the end of the store. I walk quickly to the frozen foods, headed straight for the ice cream, and quickly scan the titles, looking for rocky road.
Like the idiot couldn’t have just eaten another brand.
I give a tug to the freezer door and quickly pick one out. Two. I pick out. Two. That should hold him over for a bit. Turning the corner, heading for the register to check out … it’s like the Sky Wizard hates me.
One register open. Number five. Cash waiting. Hair mocking me with its obvious sexual nature. Absurd crap to say—I know—but I see the way it’s looking at me. Might as well be sticking out its non-existent tongue. Bad bod
y part to think about.
The corner of his mouth lifts. My knees aren’t faring so well. He notices my hesitation, picking up the phone behind him by the register, he presses a button.
“Attention customers, we are featuring a special in the frozen food section. With every purchase you make today, Mariah Carey will dance for you.”
Adam is going to have to find another brand of goddamn ice cream.
I eye the automatic doors.
The Sky Wizard is definitely a man. “Your choice of song.”
I drop the basket and sprint, but damn it, youth and speed of a gazelle—The Produce Gem cuts me off, arms extended to block my escape. A laugh that would be adorable if it wasn’t directed at me.
“I couldn’t resist, Lilla. I’m sorry.” His stomach rolls with amusement.
“Stop laughing at me.” Please don’t cry.
He keeps his arms out, blocking my path.
“Just wait a sec.” Sobering up. “Don’t run, okay?” Lowers his arms. “I have your cookies.”
“What cookies?”
“You had Thin Mints. The Girls Scouts?” He motions to the doors. “When you dropped your basket … that night.” His lips fight a smile. “I have them in my car if you want them. The Schweddy Balls had to go back on the shelf, though. Sorry.” He has really white teeth.
“Uhm …”
“I can run to the car and get them if you fear being kidnapped or something.”
“Are you planning on doing that?”
“Yeah,” he sighs, “I figured it was best to tell you beforehand. Follow me, please.” Cash turns and heads for the doors.
“Wait, I need to buy this,” I raise the basket in my hand, containing the ice cream that will be melted to crap by the time I get home.
He waves me on. “Consider it customer service at its finest.”
I pause as he steps outside, making sure my feet are still legally within the store.
“I am not stealing, Cash.” The door slides closed. I step back and then forward, making it open again. “I’m not a thief.”
He replies, but the door closes and I don’t hear him.
It reopens as he does this two step-thing. “You aren’t. My fa—” The door closes again. He grumbles, stepping forward to make it open and tugs gently on my arm, effectively pulling me outside. “My father owns this place. Whatever is in the store belongs to our family. Essentially me. Got it, Mariah?”
“Your dad is Mr. Valentine?”
“Someone ate her Wheaties this morning. Now, are you coming with me or not?”
Of course he’s a Valentine. Look at him; he’s the pure definition of the word. “With.”
“Good.” He digs keys out of his pocket, heading towards the parking lot. “Fuck, it’s as miserable outside as it is inside that place.”
Cash tugs at his apron strings pulling it free, and tosses it above a black car. He pauses and pulls the blue polo shirt off too, revealing a lot of skin. I lied. The Sky Wizard must be on my side, after all.
“Your cookies are no doubt melted. You’re just lucky I didn’t eat them, I guess. Sorry.” Cash bends, looking inside the car from the driver’s side door. Two perfect dimples are imprinted into the smooth skin of his lower back.
He emerges with a brown paper bag.
“Here you go, ma’am.”
I take the bag, trying to divert my eyes from ogling and look to my hands.
“That’s an ugly word to use for a woman, but, thanks for saving my cookies.”
“Actually, I should be thanking you. That little number in the chips aisle was the best day I’ve worked here.” He smiles. “If only you had on those cut-off pants she used to wear …”
I suck in a deep guilt-ridden breath.
Cash notices, leans forward. “You own some, don’t you?”
I shake my head quickly, not trusting my former torn-waistband-jeans-wearing-self to speak. He smiles and goes back to searching his car. This time he grabs a white shirt and slips it over his head. Along the bottom is colorful paint splotches.
“Moonlighting as a painter?” I ask.
He didn’t seem to notice the marks until I pointed them out. His fingers pop the bottom of his shirt dismissively. “The grocery store is my moonlight. The paint is everything outside of those doors.”
“You don’t like working for your family?”
“It’s a bit complicated for a parking lot conversation—especially—when it’s nearing ninety fucking degrees on this blacktop.”
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to pry.”
Cash closes his car door, keeping his eyes on me. “Yeah you were. And I don’t mind. Just not here.”
From the front doors of Valentine’s Grocery, a loud whistle sings. Heath waves at Cash and then cups his hands to yell across the parking lot, “Your dad said if your ass wasn’t back in the stockroom in five minutes you should find a new person to call dad.”
Cash looks back to me. “I vote to find a new person to call dad. Want to run away with me?”
Basically, the whole reason I’m here. “I thought I was being lured to your car to be kidnapped?”
He shines brighter as I play along. “It was purely a question of warning.”
“So I should run, then?”
Cash stares at me for a moment, his eyes trailing down to the bag in my hand. Or so, I thought.
“Pretty sure we both have to go back to the moonlight job, Lilla.”
This gold band around my finger burns.
“Yeah,” I say, sadly, “I guess we do. Thanks for saving my cookies. And for the ice cream.”
“Hey,” he calls, “I like to go to Sunrise Park, after work. Maybe I’ll see you there sometime.”
“Where is that?”
“You’ve never been?” I shake my head to his displeasure. “How long have you been married?”
“Adam’s not really … that sort of guy.”
“What kind of guy is that?” Cash asks.
“The kind of guy that would want to go hang out in a park?”
“Is he the kind of guy who likes talking to his beautiful wife? Kissing her? Copping a feel? ’Cause, I’m pretty sure that’s the whole backstory to taking the wife to the park. Not for trees and bird watching, Lilla.”
I look away.
“He’s just not very romantic. That type of person.”
“Are you?”
Yes. Absolutely. Can we go there now, please?
“I guess it’s my story that is too complicated for a parking lot conversation, Cash.”
Cash dims at my words, but says, “Then I hope to see you where Dandelion Street meets Sunrise Park Avenue. Around seven,” before he heads back to the store.
I don’t have the nerve to meet him at the park tonight, or even the next. When I make a stop at the store the following week I don’t see Cash working. And when I’m home, my mind constantly travels back to him; this stranger I don’t know. So anxiously I count down the days until I can justify (lie) to Adam about having to make a trip to Tangerine. To only get there and see Cash—then hide in the other aisles and talk myself out of walking by him.
Today when I find myself brave enough to walk through the produce department, he’s unpacking a box of herb plants. I linger by the oranges in hopes he will spot me and say hi, first, but he doesn’t. When I get closer, I see he has music tucked into his left ear. Cash smiles when he sees me, but keeps working.
“How much?” I ask, pointing to the plants.
He pulls the music from his ear, the wire from the iPod tucked under his shirt.
“Depends who is asking.”
I smile. There it is. That little game. “A girl who desperately wants to have a fresh herb garden.”
“Is that your Eden?”
I laugh. “My what?”
“Your passion. Your center.”
I stare at him. “My paint?”
Cash goes back to working but smiles. “Exactly.”
“I always wanted
to have a garden. Adam thinks I’ll kill it, though. That it’s a waste of time. Money.”
“So, your husband thinks your Eden is a waste of time? That sounds promising, Lilla.”
“He’s under a lot of pressure. The housing market isn’t what it used to be.”
Cash laughs, tossing an empty box to the side. “My dad is the owner of a grocery store. You think I never saw a man under pressure growing up? I can tell you this much—my mother never told him he was wasting his time. Even if she thought so.”
“Then I’d say he’s really lucky, Cash.”
“Not really, considering this store is on its ass. He’s loved. That’s the word he is. He’s loved for trying. For having a dream to share.” Cash scoops the empty cartons up and puts them in a shopping cart, then hands me a basil plant. “Price is all a matter of what you’re willing to trade to get what you want.”
I swallow down my nerves. “How far back will this set me?”
“Hopefully far enough to rethink shitty ideas Adam has about your dreams.”
“I really loved the eighties.” My joke makes him laugh truthfully. It lightens the heaviness in my chest. Such a small thing, but those are the things I miss the most.
“Consider this a donation to the Lilla Finding Her Eden fund, courtesy of Valentine’s Grocery.”
“It’s no wonder your dad is losing his ass. You give everything away, Cash.”
He hands over the plant. “Only to the pretty girls.”
“Your vocabulary is improving,” I tease, placing the basil in the cart. “I much prefer the word girl to ma’am.”
He eyes me. “I hoped if I remembered that, you’d remember my directions.”
“To what?”
Cash smiles sourly. “My Eden.”
The park. I cringe at my stupidity. “I haven’t been able to go,” I lie. “But I’ve tried.”
“Can you go tonight? Or do you have to hurry home to hear your husband ridicule that basil plant?”
“I might not always act—entirely as a wife should—but he’s still my husband, Cash. Don’t speak as if you know him, please.”
“I know there’s a girl from Blossom County that comes up to Tangerine to shop. Why’s that, Lilla?”
