by A. J. Truman
“What’s Asda?” Rafe asked.
“Figures you Yanks don’t have Asda back home. It’s the best food you can get for the lowest price. And it’s a huge store with lots of different departments, so your folks will never know you’re buying food. There’s one in Clapham Junction. Let’s go.”
“Right now?”
“Didn’t you say you were going to starve to death otherwise?”
“Okay.” The relief washing over Rafe’s face warmed Eamonn’s chest. A determination took hold in Rafe’s eyes that Eamonn found a bit sexy, much to his surprise. “We’re going to Asda.”
“Yes we bloody are. Now finish your fucking muffin.”
* * *
It was funny to watch Rafe stare in awe at everything around them. It was just a normal train platform with the regular maps and adverts, but judging by Rafe’s reaction, Eamonn could’ve been living in Willy Wonka’s factory or Emerald City this whole time.
“This is so cool,” Rafe said once they got on the train. “I am on the Tube. In England.”
“It’s not the Tube. It’s a commuter train that brings people to London where they can then take the Tube.”
“Oh. Well, I’ll just tell my friends I rode on the Tube.”
Eamonn led them to a pair of empty seats. Rafe rubbed his hand over the seat fabric.
“You might not want to do that,” Eamonn warned him. “These seats can be very dodgy.”
“I am literally The Girl on the Train.”
Rafe stared at every nook and cranny of the tube car. He stared out the window at the suburban sprawl. He was like a dog wagging his tail with no end in sight. Eamonn would’ve found it annoying if there wasn’t something charming about this optimism, about the way the glaring fluorescent light reflected in his brown eyes.
He found himself laughing. “What are you doing? They don’t have automobiles and roads and handrails back in America?”
“I know,” Rafe said. “I know I’m probably being ridiculous right now, and I’m making a big deal out of everything, but I’m just this kid from Arlington, Virginia. Just this ordinary kid who lived this ordinary life in this random town. And now I’m on another continent, in another culture, thousands of miles from home. It may be cars and roads, but it’s part of this amazing journey, this adventure, when you think about it.
“Think about you and me. We grew up an ocean apart, in separate worlds basically. Complete and total strangers. And now we’re on this train together. Connected. It’s…I don’t know if I’m explaining it correctly, but it hit me, this sense of how large the world is.”
Rafe’s eyes were wide and expressive. Eamonn wished he could understand what Rafe was trying to articulate. He’d never traveled a distance like Rafe had. But he got swept up in Rafe’s passion. He got it without actually getting it. It was rare for someone to open up to you, and you had to grab those moments, even if you weren’t quite sure what was happening.
Clapham Junction was announced over the speaker.
“That’s our stop, right?” Rafe asked.
Eamonn broke away from Rafe’s gaze. He cleared his throat and nodded.
Mind the gap, the announcer said.
“Mind the gap. I love that!”
Chapter 7
RAFE
“It’s Wal-mart,” Rafe said when they walked through the front doors. “Asda is Wal-mart.”
Rafe couldn’t believe there was a Wal-mart equivalent in England. It dulled some of the country’s luster, like every time he saw an American chain store.
Except for now.
Asda was the savior Rafe needed. He’d never been so happy to see discounted goods. Eamonn grabbed a cart and followed him to the food section.
“What do you want to make for your meals?” Eamonn asked.
Rafe hadn’t given that much thought on the train ride. He’d been transfixed by the British landscape, and he found that being in such proximity to Eamonn scrambled his circuits. It was like when two walkie-talkies were held up to each other and let out a high-pitched noise. And one of those walkie-talkies had scintillating blue eyes. After his talk with Louisa about Eamonn and his ex-boyfriend though, Rafe realized that the guy needed space. He was still healing. So he would keep his scrambling circuits to himself.
“I can get cereal for one pound!” Rafe threw four boxes of Cheerio’s in the shopping cart.
“You can’t just eat cereal every day. What do you want for lunch?”
Rafe stopped in the aisle, catching stolen glances at all the cheap food. He came to a realization he was afraid to say out loud.
“What do you usually make?” Eamonn asked. Rafe didn’t respond and looked at the floor. “Have you ever made yourself a meal?”
“Outside the dining hall?”
“Are you serious? Are you actually a real person, or are you a toddler full-grown like that Brad Pitt movie?” Even Eamonn’s scruff gawked at him.
“At home, my mom made all of my meals. She did all the cooking.”
“You’ve never cooked a meal in your bloody life?”
Saying it out loud made it sound ridiculous, but it made sense to Rafe. This was how he grew up, as did most of his friends. When he awoke for school, there would be a bowl of cereal and a cut up banana waiting for him on the kitchen table. His mom would hand him his lunch or his dad would give him lunch money. And in evenings, when he was up in his room doing homework, or pretending to do homework, he would eventually smell the beginnings of a savory aroma brewing in the kitchen. It would get stronger, setting his stomach to rumble mode as he waited in anticipation for what would be in store downstairs. That’s just how it was in his house. In college, he remembered the surge of freedom he felt when he got to choose his own meals in the dining hall, a fact he would not repeat to Eamonn. He didn’t want to hear the sarcastic response to that tidbit.
“I’m assuming you’ve cooked all your meals ever since you walked out of the womb.”
“Most of them,” Eamonn said with a smile that threatened to scramble more of Rafe’s circuits. “Mum’s a great cook, but her hours at the restaurant were a bit naff, so I wound up making dinner for me and my sisters. It was nothing revolutionary. I’d heat up some chicken in the oven and zap a bag of frozen vegetables in the microwave.”
Rafe imagined Eamonn wearing an apron preparing a home-cooked meal. He was probably adorable with his sisters. Teasing, yet fiercely protective.
Eamonn’s face softened, and he gave Rafe a nudge with his elbow. “Well, there’s a first for everything. It’s all part of that global adventure you were discussing. Just think, somewhere in Zimbabwe, there’s a boy also learning how to cook.” He interlocked his fingers. “Connected.”
“Funny.”
Eamonn wheeled the cart through the maze of aisles. Rafe loved seeing all the pound and pence signs in the prices. He was probably the only one in Asda who appreciated them.
“So what’s the best meal you’ve ever made?” Rafe asked.
“Chateaubriand steak. It’s this meat you have to get just right. I made it for my first anniversary with…”
“Nathan?”
Eamonn nodded yes.
“I’m sorry for asking about him at Apothecary the other night. I feel like a prize idiot.” Rafe said that last in his best cockney accent. That got a smile out of Eamonn, which could have illuminated all of Asda. “Nathan also sounds like a prize idiot, too.”
Eamonn’s non-response told Rafe that he was a lot worse. Louisa was right. He did not seem like a guy who did the casual thing.
“What about you? Do you have a boyfriend back home? A Chad or Skip?”
“Is your knowledge of America based solely on Eighties teen movies?” Rafe knew Eamonn didn’t mean any harm, but his question still stung. “There is no Chad or Skip waiting for me. There, uh, never was.”
“Well, that’s bollocks. American men sure have their heads up their arses.”
“I usually found myself in the Baxter role.”
Eamonn point
ed them to the dairy aisle. “Yogurt?”
“It’s only sixty pence? Sure!”
Eamonn tossed yogurt cups in their basket. “What’s a Baxter?”
“It’s this term from a movie I once saw. He’s the nice guy who gets dumped in romantic comedies so the two leads can get together. Think Bill Pullman in Sleepless in Seattle, if you’ve seen it.
“In high school, there was this guy I liked, and I thought we were hitting it off at a party until he asked if my friend was single. Then last year, I started dating this guy, until he dumped me for his closeted fuckbuddy. I don’t know. I’ve gone on lots of first and second dates, but I just can’t seem to score a run. That was a baseball metaphor.”
“I know.”
“Do they play baseball here?”
“No, but I still know what baseball is.”
“Right.” Rafe didn’t know what made him open up about this. Perhaps it was the magic of Asda.
“I stand by my original statement. It’s bollocks and American men are prize idiots, dude,” he added with his American accent.
He knew Eamonn was just saying that to make him feel better, but it worked. “Relationships. Who needs ‘em?”
“Precisely.”
In a way, Rafe was glad that Eamonn didn’t do casual and was his flatmate. They were two strikes against Rafe trying to pursue him for Operation: Slut. It would only end in disaster, and Rafe liked having him as a friend.
Eamonn leaned over the shopping cart. “We have breakfast covered. What do you like to eat for lunch?”
“Sandwiches. I like sandwiches.”
“Alright then! Well, for that, you will need bread and lunch meat.” Eamonn clapped his hands together, and Rafe had this spark of knowing things would be okay.
“To the bread aisle!” Rafe yelled.
“To the bread aisle!” Eamonn called out like he was Buzz Lightyear. He put his feet on the bottom of the cart and zoomed down the main aisle. Rafe ran alongside him.
“You don’t have to go so fast.”
“Yes, we do. No adventures start with walking.” Eamonn’s smile and arched eyebrow sent a wave of heat rolling through Rafe. He would have to get used Eamonn’s facial expressions giving him that reaction. Like the rest of his British culture shock, he assumed it would subside eventually.
But for now, to the bread aisle!
* * *
Rafe didn’t know how much time passed in Asda. It was like a Vegas casino. No clocks. No sense of hours and minutes. He and Eamonn zipped through the aisles like they were on supermarket sweep. Each choice of food emboldened Rafe and demystified cooking for him. He grabbed whole wheat bread, peppercorn-flavored turkey meat, Dijon mustard. He even bought a head of lettuce, not the pre-mixed bag. He was ready to live dangerously.
Rafe nearly jumped for joy when he saw how cheap Asda-branded canned food was. Only fifty pence apiece for off-brand Chef Boyardee and Campbell’s soup.
“Wait a tick,” Eamonn said. “Those are condensed soups.”
“What does that mean?”
Eamonn laughed and shook his head, a normal occurrence this afternoon, but Rafe didn’t care. He found himself saying things just to get a reaction for Eamonn. He knew that there were different kinds of mustard. He knew that non-perishable food had expiration dates years in the future. He hadn’t planned to play the role of dumb, gullible American, but he was addicted to Eamonn’s reactions. In this instance, Rafe honestly didn’t know about condensed soup.
“Condensed soups mean you have to add water. You pour the soup and a can full of water into the saucepan.” Eamonn pointed to the directions on the can.
“And it doesn’t taste watery?”
“No.”
“Do I need a saucepan? Where do I pick one up?”
“They sell them here,” Eamonn said. “Aisle seven I believe.”
“Wow. Asda has everything!”
“You can spring for the better canned soup.” Eamonn picked up a different can. “This one has chicken and wild rice.”
Eamonn held it out to him.
“That one is double the price,” Rafe said.
“One whole pound.”
“It adds up!”
Another laugh and head shake from Eamonn. Another private swoon for Rafe.
Eamonn placed three cans of better soup in the cart. “These are on me.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I insist. Condensed soup is honestly rubbish. It’s watered-down shite.”
“Thank you.” A quiet suddenly came between them. It was too quiet. “They have canned ravioli?!”
Rafe sprinted down the aisle. He pointed the food out to Eamonn, and this time did an actual jump for joy. He put as many cans as could fit in his arms. His mom never made him this kind of food because of the salt content. But Rafe was in charge of his culinary destiny these next four months. And by George, he was going to eat ravioli!
When he turned around with his arms full of canned goods, there was Eamonn staring with a look that could burn a hole right through him. He wasn’t smiling or laughing or shaking his head, but something was going through his mind. Nobody had ever looked at him this way, like he was someone worth taking notice of. It both unnerved Rafe and made his insides melt like a Klondike bar.
I need to get dessert, too.
“Do they have Klondike bars in England?”
“Yeah—yes,” Eamonn croaked out, a little flustered. “I mean, of course we fucking do.”
“Do you think they’ll melt before we get back to campus?”
“Only one way to find out. It’s all part of the adventure.”
“Thanks for today.” Rafe leaned against the front of the shopping cart. A part of him wondered if there was more to Eamonn’s friendliness, or if it was all out of pity.
“Anytime.”
“I didn’t realize grocery shopping could be so fun!”
Rafe still detected a slight mood shift, like he wouldn’t be getting anymore head shake reactions from Eamonn. “I think it’s time to check out. We have to carry all this crap back to campus.”
It was a fifteen-minute walk from their dorm to the train, something Rafe had not taken into consideration during his adventures in groceryland.
Eamonn put a guiding hand on Rafe’s lower back and the other on the cart and led them to the checkout section. He knew how to get there, but he wasn’t going to stop Eamonn. Even when they got in line, Eamonn’s hand lingered on Rafe’s back until they had to start emptying their cart. It was what he would remember most about his very first grocery trip, even if it was probably just him being nice.
EAMONN
Eamonn yawned as they got on the commuter train, hands full with Asda bags. The shopping trip wore him out. He stumbled to a seat, and Rafe pretty much fell into the seat beside him.
“I don’t know how people work and grocery shop and then cook all of this!” Rafe said. “I need to call my mom and thank her for her superhuman endurance.”
Eamonn smiled out the window. He lost track at how many times Rafe made him laugh today. He’d never had this much fun inside a bloody Asda. It really was a different world, like Rafe said. There was no Nathan and no bad memories inside the superstore.
“Is everything okay?” Rafe grinned up at him, and Eamonn had this impulse to wrap him in a tight hug, which he resisted. He couldn’t try to start anything with him. Rafe was leaving in a few months. Starting anything with him was a one-way ticket to getting hurt, something Eamonn didn’t want to go through again.
“Yeah.”
Like they said in the dairy aisle, relationships: who needs ‘em?
Eamonn watched the landscape change out the window. There was magic out there that only Rafe could see, he thought. He wondered what it was like to be so far away from home. Eamonn hadn’t traveled in years, and he wasn’t planning on doing so anytime soon. He had plenty of adventure in England. Still, seconds before the train lulled him to sleep, he imagined himself in Americ
a, staring up at the Statue of Liberty, Rafe at his side.
The conductor announced their stop.
Eamonn blinked to life. He saw that sometime during his nap, Rafe had fallen asleep against his shoulder, and Eamonn’s arm was around him. It was one of those actions that seemed completely natural. Their bodies just fit together, like some kind of instinct Eamonn didn’t know he had. He smelled the warm scent of Rafe and pulled him close for a second.
Rafe emerged from his nap, but not even he seemed surprised by the position he found himself in. “You have a very comfortable shoulder.”
“And you snore like a foghorn.”
He bolted up. “I do?”
“Just taking the piss out of you.” Eamonn took back his arm and looped his hands through grocery bags.
“I didn’t snore, right?”
“Right.” That was a lie. The truth was that Rafe did snore a little on the trip, a quiet, steady drone. But there was a greater truth, that Eamonn had found it quite endearing.
Chapter 8
RAFE
“You guys are going to fa-reeeeeeak. This is going to be the dopest dinner you’ve ever had in your entire lives.”
The flatmates sat around the table, while Rafe stood over the stove stirring. The sauce aroma fluttered up to his nose, and it reminded him of home for a second. Even though it was canned food, he believed his parents would be proud of him. More importantly, he was proud of him.
Rafe turned off the stove and carried the saucepan over to the table. “And…here…we…go,” he said as he spooned ravioli onto everyone’s plate. Some of the sauce burned and pieces of ravioli fused to the bottom of the pan, but his flatmates didn’t need to peek behind that curtain.
“This looks amazing,” Eamonn said.
“It’s just canned ravioli, right?”
Eamonn thwacked Heath on the arm.
“I love ravioli,” Louisa said, mostly to Heath. She ate her first piece. “This is delicious. The pasta part just melts in my mouth.”
“Louisa moonlights as the chief food critic for The London Times,” Heath said. “She’s going to write you a smashing review.”
“Bugger off,” she said to him in that way that meant anything but.
