Page 23 of When Wildflowers Bloom

“I go grocery shopping on Friday nights, thank you very much.”

“Grocery shopping?” he asks incredulously.

“Hey!” I say, voice rising slightly. “Don’t knock it ’til you try it. There’s hardly anyone there, and you can read all the labels without worrying about being in someone’s way. Then I go home and prep everything for the next week. There’s satisfaction in filling glass containers with the perfect amount of sliced bell peppers in a well-organized fridge, I’ll have you know.”

His eyebrows pinch, voice lowering, “You really spend Friday nights buying groceries?”

“And meal prepping,” I add. “And then I have a self-care night. I go for a long walk with my dog and soak in a bath, sometimes I watch a nature documentary with David Attenborough’s relaxing voice. It’s a whole magical thing.”

I give him a look, my wordless,See how much I’m living?

He shakes his head, hair falling into his face, but his eyes are smiling.

“Okay, Birdie, if you say so.”

“I do,” I say firmly, opening the driver’s door to the minivan. “And you don’t have a toothpick in your mouth today.”

He grins, eyebrows raised. “I’m unpredictable like that.”

With that, he’s circling his Jeep, opening the driver’s door as I drop into the seat of the minivan before I can say anything else.

It’s only after I’m driving away that I let myself wonder what it would be like to have dinner with them.

Seven

After dropping off Mabeland her plant—a very phallic-looking cactus—I walk the dog with Huck, take a spin class at the gym, and finally walk through the doors of the grocery store where the relief is instant.

There’s soft music playing over the speakers, like the DJ designed the playlist just for me, and combined with the emptiness of the aisles, the calm that washes over me rivals that of someone on an actual vacation.

I wave to my regular cashier, Monica. Her black hair is in its usual dreadlocks, but today they are tied up with a bright pink headband which pops against her dark brown skin. “Right on time, Birdie!” she calls with a smile as I grab my cart.

“I’m nothing if not prompt,” I say to her with a laugh.

I always start in produce, where I’m free to examine every item I put in my cart with scrutiny and at my leisure.

I’m interrupted mid-prod of a bag of oranges with, “Fancy seeing you here.”

I close my eyes, knowing before I see.Bo.

I don’t look at him when I ask, “What are you doing here?”

I hear the smile I refuse to look at when he responds, “Well, I’m either here because I enjoy grocery shopping on Friday nights or because you enjoy grocery shopping on Friday nights.”

“You know, I knew you were a closet Friday night grocery shopper from the moment I met you.”

Then, because I can’t not, I look at him, and damn him for looking so good in a Monroe Cabins T-shirt and blue jeans, leaning effortlessly on the handle of an empty cart. His crooked smile and toothpick somehow add to his appeal. His hair, usually loose and tucked behind his ears, is pushed back, showing off the angles of his face more than usual. Even in the harsh lighting of the grocery store, Bo is a damn treat.

My yoga pants, sweaty cropped top, and unkempt ponytail might as well be garbage bags next to him.

After letting myself drink him in long enough that even Mabel would be proud, I drop the bag of oranges I’ve been holding in my cart and start walking away.

To the surprise of no one, he follows.

“How can I help you?” I ask, investigating an onion.

“I told you I want to help you.”

I scoff. “Self-centered much? In case you haven’t noticed, what I need help with gets billions of dollars of funding each year, and they still can’t figure it out. I don’t think you have the cure forcancer, Bo.” I shoot him a look as I put two onions in my cart and move to the next bin.

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