Page 19 of Rare Blend
Family.
The word tastes bitter in my mouth. Jenn is nice—I can admit that— and the kids seem okay, but these people are not my family.
After breakfast, it’s time to face the one thing I’ve been dreading. Unpacking.
It feels pointless to settle in when I could just as easily be packing it all right back up in a week. Well, maybe not a week. That’s more wishful thinking than anything.
But before I can begin unpacking, I need groceries. Badly.
Last night, my growling stomach woke me from my nap, and of course, it was after everything except a questionable-looking convenience store had closed. I didn’t even want the food, none of it sounded good, but I was starving and desperate. When that got ruined, I had to scrounge through my work purse, hoping I had a snack or two in there. I was in luck. There was a week-old Ziplock bag of salt and vinegar chips, broken down into tiny pieces and stale. It was great. Super satisfying.
Never again will I let myself be that unprepared. I think what upsets me the most about last night isn’t that his dog jumped me and ruined my shitty dinner, or that I was accused of being a criminal, it’s that Ethan didn’t apologize. Not once. Or offer me food when clearly I was hungry. Aren’t small towns known for being able to borrow a cup of sugar from your neighbor? A granola bar would’ve sufficed.
My nails dig into the steering wheel as I think about my jerk of a neighbor and turn into the parking lot of Harvest Grocers, Red Mountain’s only grocery store. I nearly missed it entirely because the faded sign and modestly sized building blend in with the other small storefronts around it.
Inside, the aisles are narrow but well stocked, and the scent of freshly baked bread fills the air, adding a touch of rustic charm. It may not have an overwhelming variety of options oftenfound in big supermarkets, but once I find the freezer section, I’m quickly debating between a single-serve meat lovers frozen lasagna or a chicken Alfredo. I enjoy cooking, but something about cooking for one is incredibly depressing. Thankfully, my appetite has recently started to come back. For a while there, Hillary had to force feed me. I’d take one bite and feel the food slide past the emotional lump in my throat, effectively killing any interest in eating.
Instead of choosing one or the other, I drop both in the cart and move on to the pantry aisles. I stock up on pickles, some canned foods, a decently sized bag of rice, and other random prepared boxed foods, all the while keeping a mental tally on the total, because money is tight.
“Hey!” a familiar voice calls to me from the left, startling me, and I drop the bottle of olive oil I was about to put in my cart.
I bend down to grab it, looking up to see my dad’s smiling face. Even though I was just with him, it’s weird running into him in public. Standing, I see he’s not alone.
“Jack, this is my daughter, Marisa. Marisa, this is Jack Ledger, who I made the cottage arrangements with.”
Jack towers over my dad. He’s an older man who looks about mid to late sixties, with salt and pepper hair and plenty of fine lines, especially deep in the outer corners of his eyes and around his mouth. He smiles warmly at me, and the lines sink deeper.
“Nice to meet you, Marisa,” he says, tipping his head at me like a cowboy in a western film. If he were wearing a cowboy hat, he’d be spot on. He shakes my hand firmly but gentle. “And my apologies about the mixup last night.”
My dad rears back, looking confused. “Mixup?”
Jack shoves his hands in his pockets, shaking his head as if he really feels bad. He looks more remorseful than Ethan. “I forgot to tell Ethan about Marisa staying next door, and his dog attacked her.” He turns to me. “I feel just awful.”
“It’s fine, really. I didn’t get hurt. No harm, no foul.”
“Sweets, why didn’t you say anything earlier?” It’s been ages since my dad has called me that, and a little corner of my heart pinches.
I force a smile. “It’s not a big deal. I didn’t think it was worth bringing up.” Really, what was I supposed to say?Thanks for the accommodations, oh, by the way, the neighbor, who’s also the owner, hates me.
“Well, let me or Ethan know if there’s anything we can do to make your stay more comfortable,” Jack says. He seems like such a nice man, unlike his son, so I hold in my scoff. If I need anything, I’m certainly not going to Ethan for help, unless his personality does a 180 and he actually apologizes to me.
“We should get going,” my dad says. “We were just popping in to order some sandwich trays for Caleb and his teammates. There’s a big game on Friday, if you’re interested?” He waggles his brows at me, as if that may entice me more. I have zero interest in going to a high school football game.
“We’ll see,” I say noncommittally, but my dad doesn’t seem to notice my lack of enthusiasm.
We part ways, and I finish my shopping.
Ten minutes later, I’m unloading a trunk full of groceries as the sun beats down against my back. I can’t tell if it’s an unusually warm day for fall or if this is normal for the southeastern portion of the state. Seattle has already dropped down to a rainy fifty degrees, and my body feels out of whack, trying to acclimate.
I retrieve the last bag, feeling way more winded than I should as sweat forms around my temples, and slam down the trunk.
Behind me, someone coughs, causing me to still. It’s Ethan. I can sense it’s him without even having to look. I muster a forced smile, reminding myself to be friendly. Maybe yesterday was a fluke and I caught him on an off day. But as I turn to look at him,I see he’s standing closer than I thought, arms crossed, stance wide and domineering, with an irritated scowl to match.
“Hi, neighbor,” I say cheerfully.
His scowl deepens, causing my smile to falter.
Definitely not a fluke.
