Page 15 of The Surprise

Of course, at the top of the list is toilet paper.

I mean, it’s hardly a shock. With eight people in the house, we go through toilet paper at an alarming rate, even with only two bathrooms. The worst part is that it fills the cart, leaving very little room for everything else. And some of the other stuff is a little annoying, too. I mean, I don’t mind buying the girls tampons, but should I really know that one of them has a yeast infection?

I mean, what evenisthat?

Ugh.

I’m just tossing the athlete’s foot cream—I’m guessing Whitney’s the one who needs that, because Mom made her throw out her barn boots—on the pile when I bump into Beth.

As in, I literally bump into her with the front of my cart, knocking two cans of refried beans out of her hands and onto the tile floor.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say.

When she looks up at me, her eyes fly wide. She looks. . .guilty. Embarrassed.

She should.

She’s been avoiding my calls and texts for over a week. It’s not like I’m a predator. I may have liked her, sure, but mostly I was just happy to have a friend who’s almost my age in town. I did finally give up, but she could’ve just been honest and said she didn’t want to share her number in the first place.

“It’s fine.” She swallows and bends over to pick up her dropped cans. That’s when I notice what else she’s holding. Industrial-sized black trash bags.

“Whoa, disposing of a body?” I can’t help my smirk.

“At least I’m not a boy who’s menstruating.” She eyes the two different boxes of tampons in my cart pointedly and then meets my eye questioningly.

“I live with six women,” I say. “Did you really think I’d refuse to buy them tampons?” I shrug. “Never been a big deal to me.”

Beth frowns.

Did I say the wrong thing? Thanks to my mom and sisters, girls aren’t the enigma to me that they are to most guys.

Except for this one, apparently.

“Well, I better go check out before my cream turns into cottage cheese.” I look pointedly ahead of me.

“I’m sorry I didn’t text you back,” Beth says. “It’s just that. . .”

I wait, but she doesn’t elaborate. “Oh. Well, that explains it. Now I’m not offended at all.”

“Offended?” She blinks. “Why would you be offended?”

“When someone gives me her number voluntarily, then doesn’t reply in any real way to a single call or text?” I shrug. “I don’t know. It’s not like I feel like a creepy stalker or anything.”

Her face drains of color. “It’s not like that,” she says. “Things with my family are just. . .”

“I get it,” I say. “I mean, things with my family are also. . .” I nod my head. “Actually, wait. I don’t get it, because again, you didn’t say anything. Things are. . .busy? Things are tense? They’re stressful? Those are all the kinds of adjectives you might use to tell me why you blew me off. If you cared.” I shrug again. “But whatever. I got the message.”

She grabs my cart, dropping the already dented bean can again. “No, it’s not like that.” She looks at her feet.

“Then I should keep messaging you? They felt a little like messages in glass bottles thrown out to sea, but if you say I should keep sending them. . .” An idea hits me. “Or, maybe you prefer that. Maybe I should save our glass bottles and scribble little notes. Then I can fling one at your house whenever I drive past.”

Beth’s smiling. “My parents wouldnotlike that.” As if mention of her parents somehow triggers her, her whole face shuts down again. “The thing is, you’re really nice, but I just don’t think we should be friends.”

“That’s fine.” I take her bean can and her trash bags and throw them on the cart. “I didn’t want to be your friend.”

Her head snaps up again, her eyes searching mine. “What?”

“I wanted to ask you on a date.” I realize that I’m doing that thing my mom does, where I enunciate really well, making my words super crisp. It always makes me think she’s mocking me, so I make sure I sound normal again when I continue. “Because I thought you were cute, last week when you just showed up at my house for dinner.”

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