Page 39 of Make You Mine

“I didn’t realize it would be this crowded so early,” I say.

Chelsea glances at the other shoppers around us. “I suppose that’s what we get for coming on Good Friday. Everyone and their mother is out prepping for the holiday.”

“Including us,” I laugh, pushing the shopping cart over to the produce section. I’ve got the list on my phone of things we’ll need to pick up for tonight’s special dinner.

Normally, I’m not big on hosting, but it’s important to Declan to impress his boss. We’ve already been over his house twice for dinner, where his wife cooked us a delicious full-course meal both times.

Now it’s my turn.

I’ve warned Declan that I’ll not only be preparing a traditional American dish, but I’ll be going the good ol’ fashionedsoul foodroute. He merely grinned at me and asked if I realized who I was dealing with.

“If there’s anyone who’ll appreciate fried catfish and mac and cheese, love, it’s Cormac bloody Doyle. The man makes extra belt holes for a reason. As for his wife? She starves herself on air, so it doesn’t matter.”

I’m picking through the collard greens, checking for any that aren’t wilted, when I feel a small tug at the hem of my sweater.

I glance down to find Willow peering up at me, her big brown eyes shining with excitement.

“Mommy, guess what sound a goat makes?”

“Not now, baby. Tell me later, okay?” I say, not looking away from the bundle in my hands.

Chelsea offers a polite smile from my side, clearly unbothered by the interruption. We’d brought Willow along to run errands this morning since the schools are closed for Good Friday and the following two weeks of Easter holiday.

Crouching beside her, Chelsea asks in her usual syrupy tone, “What sound does a goat make, sweetheart?”

Willow rocks on her heels, arms behind her back like she’s winding up for a performance.

“It goesmaaaahhh!Like that. But sometimes it’s more likebwaaahhh!” Her voice jumps an octave as she tries again, louder this time. “BWAAHH!That’s the silly goat sound!”

A few shoppers glance over. I pretend not to notice, turning back to the greens as if I’m deeply invested in the stems.

Chelsea laughs gently, as if Willow’s just charmed everybody in Sainsbury’s. “That’sverygood, my dear. You’ve clearly met a goat or two in your time.”

Willow beams at the praise, emboldened like she’s just won an award for best animal impersonation in the fruit and veggies aisle.

She throws her arms out and bleats again. “BWAAAHH! BWAAAHH!That means thank you!”

The sound ricochets off the shelves like an airhorn.

Emmett lets out a startled wail from the stroller, his little face screwing up as he flails his fists. The pacifier he’d been dozing with pops out and lands in his lap.

I heave a sigh and set the collard greens back in the produce bin. The start of a headache already pulses at my temples.

“Willow!” I snap, marching over. “What have I told you about being loud in public? You woke your brother from his nap.”

“Sorry, Mommy,” she murmurs. She looks down at her feet, poking her bottom lip out in a pout.

But instead of clinging to my side like she usually does, she edges over to Chelsea.

I slip the pacifier back between Emmett’s lips, bouncing the stroller a few times until he quiets down.

“C’mon,” I say, grabbing the cart and pushing forward. “We can’t be here all day.”

Navigating the aisles at Sainsbury’s with a shopping list full of Southern staples feels like a test I didn’t study for. I grip the handle of the cart with one hand and my phone with the other, scrolling through my notes and mentally ticking off each ingredient I need for tonight: catfish, collards, elbow macaroni, sharp cheddar, butter, sugar, cinnamon, vanilla, peaches—preferably fresh, but I’ll take canned in juice if I have to. And don’t even get me started on finding self-rising cornmeal mix in this country. I swear it’s like trying to track down a unicorn.

Everything looks vaguely familiar but not right. The produce section is crowded, the layout makes no sense to me, and I’ve already reached for the wrong kind of greens twice. First kale, then mustard. At this point I’m just trying not to snap in front of the kids. I hover by the dairy case, squinting at labels and wondering if their shredded cheese blend is even remotely sharp enough. Of course it isn’t. I toss it in the cart anyway, because what choice do I have?

Chelsea keeps offering suggestions, smiling sweetly and holding things up like they’re helpful when really, they’re not.

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