Page 46 of Icing on the Cake

I make a beeline for the stack of shopping carts near the entrance, only to find them completely wiped out. My heartsinks. There’s no way I can haul all the stuff we need without a cart. I scan the area, hoping someone will abandon theirs, when I spot a lone cart near the customer service desk.

I sprint and claim it just as another set of hands grabs the handle. I look down to see a kid who can’t be more than ten years old, wearing a Spider-Man hoodie that’s two sizes too big.

“Let go,” the kid commands, his voice cracking with prepubescent bravado.

“Where are your parents?” I ask, trying to sound authoritative but not mean. I’m not about to back down from a fifth grader, but I’m also not looking to scar the kid for life.

“They’re coming.” His eyes dart around nervously.Yeah, sure they are.

“Tell you what, I’m gonna borrow this until they get here.”

The kid tightens his grip and plants his feet. “No! We need it!”

I sigh and roll my eyes, contemplating my next move. Maybe I can bribe him with a candy bar or something. Before I can make an offer, the little brat takes matters into his own hands—specifically, he takes his foot and drives it straight into my shin.

Pain shoots up my leg as I yelp and hop on one foot like an oversized flamingo. The kid bolts, disappearing into the sea of shoppers. I half expect him to turn around and flip me off like a miniature Drew Larney, but he just runs for his life.

I rub my throbbing shin and inspect the cart. It’s mine now, but was it worth getting soccer-kicked by a ten-year-old?Absolutely.No way am I doing this trip with a handbasket.

I weave through the congested aisles, ticking items off the list in my phone while bopping my head to the One Direction song playing over the PA system. The Halloween section is a war zone, with parents and college kids ransacking the costume racks and clearance bins. I steer clear; I’ve already ordered my costume.

Halfway through my list, I realize I’ve been subconsciously avoiding one particular section of the store. I groan inwardly and make a hard left toward the pharmacy.

The condom display looms at the end of the aisle like a shrineto poor life choices. I slow my pace and pretend to be interested in the vitamins and first aid kits lining the shelves.

A couple stands in front of the condoms, giggling and making out as they deliberate on which box to grab. I recognize them as students from BSU—not anyone I know personally, but familiar enough that it makes my stomach clench.

I duck behind a display of cold medicine and peek around the corner like a stalker in a bad crime drama. The last thing I need is for them to see what I’m getting, even if they’re not for me. Will they judge the choice? Think I’m some kind of perv who needs extra sensation? My mind races with all the possible assumptions they could make, and none of them are flattering.

The couple finally decides on a box and saunters off, still attached at the lips. I wait a beat, then two, before creeping up to the now-deserted display. My eyes scan the gaudy packaging—colors and slogans screaming for attention like a bunch of horny peacocks. I locate the ultra-thin, ribbed-for-his-and-her-pleasure variety that Drew specified and take a deep breath.

As I reach for the box, another hand intercepts it—a tanned hand much smaller than mine. I freeze and look over to see Elliot standing next to me, his brown eyes widening in recognition behind his glasses.

“Oh.” He pulls his hand back quickly. “Gerard.”

My heart does this weird flop thing in my chest. “Elliot. Hey.”

We stand there for a moment, and neither of us says anything. The silence isloud.

“I didn’t know you—“ I start, but he cuts me off.

“They’re not for me.”

“Oh. Uh, same here. I’m shopping for a friend.”

We both look at the box I’m still holding. It’s the only one left. I shove it toward him. “You take it.”

Elliot hesitates. “No, really. You take it.”

I push it toward him again. “Seriously, it’s cool. My friend can wait.”

He doesn’t take the box. Instead, he crosses his arms and looks at me with something like suspicion, or maybe it’s just confusion. “Gerard, it’s fine. I don’t even need them that badly.”

“Neither do I,” I say, probably too quickly.

We’re locked in this ridiculous standoff, each of us too proud or too scared to just take the darn thing and run. Part of me wonders if Elliot thinks I’m lying about them not being for me. Worse, I wonder if he’s telling the truth about them not being for him.

“Just take it,” I say again, but my voice lacks conviction now. I suddenly feel like a character in one of those old sitcoms where two people get stuck in an elevator and have to confront their feelings. Except we’re in a condom aisle, and there’s no laugh track to make this less excruciating.

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