Page 21 of The Bride
“Uh, it’s our first official appearance as a married couple in town.”
Jake huffed as he popped open his door. “We’re at the grocery store, Ellie. It’s not like we’re going to walk in as they announce us Mr. and Mrs.”
Fine, he didn’t have to be freaked out, but I was. We were three weeks into our fake marriage, with only fifteen months and one week to go.
Javier and Gomez were back. It took a little bit of explaining in my best Spanish that my dad was dead and I was married to Jake. They didn’t blink. Like it made sense that we would marry and carry on with the ranch.
They called me boss lady. They called him boss man. They did the work as always, with little conversation and no complaints.
But as soon as the calves started to drop the work increased by threefold. Protecting the newborns, watching for predators who had a penchant for calf afterbirth, constantly monitoring the weather for sudden drops in temperature. During calving season a rancher had to be super hyper-focused on all of it.
It was a big deal to take time out from that, but today we decided we would go grocery shopping together. This way I could get a handle on what he liked and him the same with me.
Which meant that one us (which would be either of us at times, because the idea that only women grocery shopped was sexist) could do grocery shopping in the future and we would be confident we knew what the other person liked.
As it was restock day at Nash’s, I was feeling pretty confident they would have at least one of everything I typically bought.
We grabbed a cart and started with fruit.
“I like apples,” Jake said. “Any kind.”
“That’s fine, but a few bananas too. Also I’m allergic to anything berry.”
“No berries, got it.”
We moved on to produce.
“Vegetables suck,” Jake said. I had to cut him a little slack because he was a cattle rancher and meat was his passion. “I know vegetarians exist, but don’t try to actually convince me this shit is good.”
“It’s good for you,” I said. “That’s the point. You shove enough broccoli and asparagus down and you don’t feel guilty about french fries.”
Jake looked super serious when he said, “I never feel guilty about french fries. I can handle lettuce, spinach, and broccoli. Bring home Brussels sprouts and you’re on your own.”
So noted. We didn’t have to worry about the meat aisle, because we obviously butchered and ate our own. However, I did point out the need for chicken. Because I was a girl and couldn’t live on red meat, and because chicken parmesan was delicious.
“Why? We can just kill one of the chickens no longer laying eggs.”
“No,” I said. “I like the chickens.”
Then I got the rancher frown. My dad had mastered this look by the time I was three.
Ellie, you don’t get attached to the product. Cows are meat, chickens lay eggs until they become meat, and the horses are your employees. You want a pet, we’ll get a dog.
“I know, I know. I’m saying every once in a while packaged chicken instead of having to slaughter the dinner I fed that day is easier, okay?”
“Fine.”
That’s when things got a little dicey. We cleared shampoo and conditioner no problem. I liked Fruictise Rainforest, and yes I needed both shampoo and conditioner. He liked Dove shampoo because it was the cheapest.
I needed body wash, any brand would do.
He needed Irish Spring soap.
He showed me the razors he liked. I showed him the deodorant I had to have. Fresh Scent.
Then we got to feminine products.
“Awkwaaaard,” I sang.
