Page 27 of Stolen Harmony
I walked fast, eyes on the shelves, but I could still feel the weight of people's stares. Harbor's End was small enough thateveryone knew everyone else's business, and my little performance at Anna's bar would have made the rounds by now. The whispers followed me down the aisles, not loud enough to catch the actual words but unmistakable in their tone.
I grabbed a six-pack of beer, telling myself it was for later, for when the edges of everything got too sharp again. A frozen pizza that would keep me fed without requiring actual cooking skills. A box of cereal I didn't want but that made my cart look more normal, more like something a person who had his shit together might buy.
I tossed in a jar of peanut butter for good measure. Balanced diet, right? Protein and sugar in one convenient spoonful. I hesitated in front of the organic aisle, staring at quinoa like it might bite me. No one in history had ever needed quinoa, but it looked respectable sitting in a cart.
“Thinking about changing your life?” a voice said behind me. Some guy I vaguely remembered from high school—baseball team, bad acne, now pushing a cart with two kids climbing out of it like feral monkeys.
“Yeah,” I said dryly, tossing the quinoa back on the shelf. “Starting with lying to myself.”
He laughed, shook his head, and moved on. The kids giggled as one of them dropped a box of cookies into his cart. Lucky bastard.
I turned into the next aisle and almost ran into Mrs. Callahan, the church organist, who peered into my cart like she had divine authority over processed food.
“Beer and frozen pizza,” she said, clucking her tongue. “You’ll starve before forty.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, lifting the peanut butter like it was evidence. “I’ve got protein covered.”
Her eyes narrowed at me over her bifocals. “Protein and regret, more like.”
I smirked, pushing past before she could notice the cereal.
At the end of the aisle, I passed a display of Valentine’s candy already on clearance. I tossed in a bag of chocolate hearts just to see if anyone would dare comment. If I was going to be judged by half the town anyway, I might as well earn it.
The cashier was a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and graying hair pulled back in a practical ponytail. She gave me a lingering look as she scanned the beer.
She eyed the frozen pizza, beer, and cereal sliding across the scanner. “Stocking up, huh? Looks like the bachelor survival kit.”
“Don’t forget the peanut butter,” I said. “That makes it gourmet.”
Her laugh was genuine, the kind that softened the edges of my hangover. “Sweetheart, if you start putting peanut butter on frozen pizza, I’m calling the paramedics myself.”
The pet store was next, a small place that smelled like hay and kibble and the particular musk of animals that had been confined too long. The owner was a cheerful woman in her forties who immediately started asking questions about what kind of cat I had, how old she was, whether she'd been to a vet recently.
I made up answers that sounded plausible, picked up a small bag of kitten food and a cheap plastic litter box, the kind of basic supplies that would keep Roxie alive until I figured out what the hell I was doing. The woman kept talking, something about vaccination schedules and the importance of spaying, but her words washed over me without sticking.
I was heading for the counter when the bell over the door chimed, announcing another customer. I didn't look up, justfocused on fishing crumpled bills out of my pocket and counting out exact change. But then I heard a familiar voice speaking quietly to the clerk, and my stomach dropped through the floor.
Elias stood near the display of dog treats, holding a small bag and discussing something with the young man behind the register. He looked different in daylight, older maybe, or just more tired. His silver hair was messed by the wind, and there were lines around his eyes that I hadn't noticed in the dim light of his living room.
Our eyes met across the small store, and I felt that familiar surge of panic mixed with something I couldn't name. He looked at me for a long moment, taking in my face, the beer in my grocery bag, the set of my shoulders that probably screamed defensive and unstable. His expression was calm on the surface, but there was something underneath that might have been concern.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, his voice pitched low enough that the words felt private, intimate in a way that made my skin crawl.
I froze for a second, my mind going completely blank. Then I felt that familiar smirk twist my mouth, sharp and defensive and designed to keep people at arm's length.
“Feeling?” The word came out sharper than I meant, laced with bitter humor. “Since when do you care?”
He didn’t flinch, just kept looking at me with that steady, unreadable expression that made me want to smash something—or just bolt.
“You don’t remember much, do you?”
The not-knowing gnawed at me, worse than any hangover. What had I done? What had I said? How much of myself had I exposed while too drunk to hold up my walls?
I bristled. “What are you getting at?”
“I took you home,” he said quietly, like it was a favor I should already know about. “You were?—”
I cut him off. “Look, I get it. You didn’t have to. I’m not your responsibility.” For a second, my anger faltered, replaced by something rawer. “But… thanks, I guess. For not leaving me there.”
