Page 22 of Gap Control

This time, I didn't walk quite as fast.

We finished the trip through the store with little talking.

I went back to my list. He wandered, adding items with no discernible logic—jalapeño kettle chips, a small container of pre-cut pineapple, a second candy bar that he claimed was "for Brady," which meant it absolutely wasn't.

Still, he kept pace.

At checkout, I moved toward the self-scan lanes. TJ nudged me toward the staffed one instead.

"Why?" I asked, eyeing the teenage cashier half-reading a paperback behind the register.

"So there's a witness when you inevitably pretend you don't know me."

He started unloading his basket onto the conveyor belt without waiting for an answer. I sighed and followed.

We checked out in tandem. The cashier didn't say anything and didn't blink at our combined pile of egg rolls, yogurt, and chaos. Maybe he didn't recognize us. Perhaps he didn't care.

TJ started to ramble again—about the pineapple, a new team jacket Monroe had ordered online that came two sizes too small, and whether Raging Kiwi was a flavor or a warning.

I paid in cash. TJ tapped his phone. He whistled off-key while we bagged.

Out in the parking lot, the cold was crisp and biting, the kind that settled in the joints. My breath clouded in front of me as I reached my car.

TJ stopped beside me. He didn't say anything right away. Just handed me my bag.

Then, he reached into his bag and pulled out a protein bar. It was the kind I always bought. The brand I didn't remember him grabbing.

He held it out.

I hesitated.

"You look like you've had a day. This one's on me."

It was a small thing. A stupid thing, but I took it.

"Thanks."

He nodded, but he didn't move.

For a second, it felt like something might be about to happen. Nothing big. Just one of those small moments people look back on when they're trying to figure out where it all started.

He smiled—wide, easy, too much—and said, "I'll save the egg roll story for next time."

I shook my head and turned to unlock my car.

He walked off without waiting for a goodbye.

Inside, I sat for a minute, keys in hand, fingers curled around the steering wheel.

The protein bar sat on the passenger seat. I didn't open it.

I pulled out my phone.

Typed: Thanks for not pushing tonight.

Deleted it.

Typed again: See you tomorrow.

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