Page 5 of The Lineman

Coffee (duh).

Eggs, bacon, bread—breakfast foods were survival items.

A variety of snacks and colorful, sugary cereals, because I was an adult child.

Frozen peas (not for any real reason, but they felt like a responsible purchase that would somehow counterbalance all the sugar and alcohol in the far end of the basket—and yes, I kept them separated, lest the wanton lust of the poor grocery choices rub off on the one good one).

As I approached the checkout, a friendly older woman behind the register gave me a once-over and smiled. “Well, hi there, sugar. You must be new around here.”

I nodded, setting my basket down. “Guilty as charged.”

“Welcome to the neighborhood, honey,” she said, scanning my items. “You on that cul-de-sac?”

That cul-de-sac? Were we famous? I swear I saw more streets in the neighborhood than just ours.

“Yeah, just moved in.”

Her eyes twinkled. “Then you’ve met Elliot.”

I choked on nothing.

“I—uh. Yeah. Briefly,” I managed.

She nodded approvingly. “Good man. Works hard. Helps when he can. And handsome, isn’t he?”

I made a noise that was supposed to be casual agreement but sounded more like I was dying of lung cancer—or chlamydia. People died of chlamydia, didn’t they? It was a gurgling disease, right?

She laughed. “You enjoy the neighborhood, sweetheart. And let me know if you need any good pie recipes.”

I barely escaped with my dignity intact—and without a pie recipe I might later regret.

By the time I got home, the sun had almost set, casting a warm golden light over the street, making the place appear even more idyllic than it had before I’d left to forage for food.

As I pulled into my driveway, I spotted a familiar broad-shouldered figure walking down the road.

Elliot.

He wore joggers, a fitted T-shirt, earbuds in, casually strolling like some kind of effortless model in an off-duty ad for Marlboro or Levi’s jeans.

I climbed out of the car, attempted to gather the few wits I had left, and grabbed my grocery bags.

Elliot was almost at my driveway now, walking at an unhurried pace.

I sucked down a deep breath. This was my chance to be normal.

Say hello like a normal person. DO NOT EMBARRASS YOURSELF AGAIN.

Apparently, my inner voice was a screamer.

“Hey, Elliot!” I called, like we stood miles apart. He stopped at the foot of my driveway, like three yards away.

Elliot pulled out an earbud and gave me the kind of slow, easy smile that was probably illegal in some countries—and definitely was in Russia. Stupid Russians and their stingy judges.

“Hey, Mike,” he said, stepping close enough to make my pulse pound.

I forgot how to function.

And that’s when one of my grocery bags betrayed me.

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