Page 23 of Formula Dreams
Timmy orders us to practice scanning our items as the cameras, mics and extras are set in place.We stand at side-by-side self-service checkout registers, scanning real-life grocery items some staffer loaded into our carts.Francesca slams a frozen pizza down like it insulted her family.I beep through mine with silent precision.
She keeps looking over.
I pretend not to notice.
But I sense her watching and the tension between us no longer grates like annoyance.Instead, it’s like the edge of a sharp knife, which is entirely unacceptable.
Francesca picks up a bag of crisps—some off-brand flavor with an unfortunate amount of onion branding—and scans it.Nothing happens.She tries again.Still nothing.
“Stupid thing,” she mutters, tapping the barcode harder.
I glance over, and before I can say anything, she overcorrects—slamming the bag down with just enough force to trigger the dreaded voice.“Unexpected item in the bagging area.”
Francesca freezes.Then huffs.“Don’t look at me like that,” she says without turning, clearly sensing the smirk forming at the edge of my mouth.
I watch as she waves her hand in front of the scanner like she’s trying to reset the universe.“I didn’t even put it in the bagging area.It’s in my hand, you idiot machine.”
The machine chirps again, mechanical and smug: “Please remove item from the bagging area.”
Francesca turns toward me, expression flat as stone.“Am I the item?”
It blindsides me.Before I can stop it, a breath slips out—a short, quiet laugh I didn’t mean to give her.Just bloody great.
Her head snaps up, eyes locking on mine, sharp and triumphant.“Was that a chuckle?A real, human sound?”
I force my face blank, shake my head like I can erase it.“It was a system glitch.”
She doesn’t buy it.“No.It was a moment of personality.I knew you weren’t entirely made of granite.”
I grab my bottle of Drivex, swipe it harder than necessary across the scanner.If I keep my movements clipped, controlled, maybe she won’t see the crack she just found.“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
Her mouth curves as if she’s already won.“I’m simply saying… that might’ve been the highlight of my day.”
Christ.Why does that make me feel… things?“You should set higher standards.”
Her grin widens, bright, wicked, impossible to ignore.“You’d be surprised how low they were going into this.”
And there it is again—a pull I don’t want, don’t need.I focus on the scanner’s beeps, on anything but the truth.
She’s getting to me, and worse, she knows it.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and out of habit, I pull it out for a peek.
Vivienne.
I answer quietly.“Hello?”
“Darling,” she coos, words slurred and thick as sludge.“I can’t find my charger.The little silver one.The long one.You said you’d bring me one, remember?”
My teeth clench hard enough my temples ache.“I left two on the nightstand… the braided one and the fast charger.”
“They’re not here,” she whines, her voice pitched with petulance.“You probably forgot, which is typical of you.”
The accusation is the same as always—sharp, unfair and exhausting.I drag in a slow inhale through my nose, willing myself to keep even.Losing patience with her only fuels the spiral.“They’re there.Look again.”
There’s a clatter on her end, drawers or maybe glasses, before she mutters, “I hate this place.It smells like lemon and disinfectant.I think the staff is watering down the gin, if truth be told.”
My eyes slip closed.A muscle ticks in my cheek as I picture the empty bottles I know she hides under cushions or tucks behind curtains, the ones the staff probably clear away before I arrive.“You’re not supposed to be drinking, remember?”
