Page 94 of Single Dad Dilemma
I’d braced myself for empty bread aisles, no water to be found, yelling and fighting over supplies. A statewide shortage of nonperishables. I’d even pumped myself up to box someone out if I caught sight of some peanut butter. But there was no line. No fighting over the last can of beans.
They were acting normal.
What waswrongwith these people? Did they just walk around ready for seventeen feet of snow at any given moment? I tucked my mouth against the zipped-up collar of my coat because, I swear, ever since I heard that shit was heading our way, I’d been unable to warm up.
“That everything, honey?” the cashier asked me, eyeing the items on the conveyor belt with visible confusion.
What? She’d never shopped forlake effectbefore?
“I think so.” I chewed on my bottom lip. “Do you think I need more?”
Her pencil-thin eyebrows arched, and she let out a quiet, “Uh, no?” Then she regrouped. “How many people are you feeding?”
My chin rose a notch. “Just me.”
Her eyes widened, her mouth quivering as she tried to stifle her laugh, and I wanted to chuck my shopping cart at her judgy little face.
“I think you’ll be fine,” she said carefully. “For the next month.”
I rolled my eyes. “Whatever. I’ve never lived through a blizzard before.”
She scanned the items, shuffling them toward a bored-looking teen who bagged them unseeingly.Hewasn’t judging me.
Then he blinked down at the items as he set them in the paper bags, clearly seeing a pattern. And he gave me a weird look.
I pursed my lips and mulishly set my jaw, staring him down until he relented, cheeks flushed pink.
Just before he started loading my items up on his little cart, set to bring them out to my car, I held up my hand. “Just put them back in my cart. I’ll do it.”
“You sure?” he asked, voice squeaky and high despite his tall, long-limbed body.
“Yeah. Thanks, though.”
He shrugged and pulled my cart around to the back of the counter to do as I’d asked. I shifted restlessly, staring down at my boots before glancing at the next person in line. The elderly woman behind me was watching my items too. All she had in her basket was a couple of cans of soup and a bag of coffee.
Great. Even the old people weren’t panicking.
My cheeks were hot when the woman told me my total.
I handed my card over to the cashier with a tight smile as the teen bagged up the last of the groceries. Receipt in hand, I kept my head down and pushed the cart out to the car, slowing down when the slush accumulating on the parking lot surface impeded my speedy getaway.
“Ugh,” I said, pushing the button to open the hatch on the back of my SUV. Groceries loaded up and safe, I decided to take pity on Mr. Squeaky Voice and bring the cart back inside. The magic of the snow wasn’t quite as magical today, and I glared at every fucking flake that had landed on the car while I was shopping. There was probablysome fancy tool to remove it, but even if I’d owned one, I couldn’t have stood out in that shit for a moment longer, relying instead on the windshield wipers to give me enough visibility to drive the five minutes back home.
My phone buzzed and I yanked my gloves off to open the text from Patty.
Patty:Met someone at the pool today. She’s looking for a dog/cat sitter for about six months while they go on a world cruise. They live in Florida, and if you’re interested, I can pass along your information. My offer still stands, of course, if you don’t want to leave. But if you do, there’s another option. She said she doesn’t even need to interview you, because she’s gotten rave reviews from the people who met you here last year.
There it was. The exit strategy I’d been missing. I should’ve been ecstatic. Should’ve sighed the biggest sigh of relief known to humankind—but it never came.
Neither did the urge to send an immediate yes in response. My fingers were stiff. Unable to type anything back. Probably the cold. It was definitely, 100 percent the cold that made my insides feel all empty and echoey and terrible.
My side itched, evidence of my errand before the grocery store making an absolute mockery of me. I laid my hand over the spot on my ribs and let out a deep breath. That itch turned into a burn. Pressing my hand down harder didn’t stop it, and my blood seemed to pulse under my skin, concentrated in one regrettable spot.
Damn, damn, damn my impulsive streak. One must never make big decisions in the throes of grief. I should’ve just cut some fucking bangs.
Then I sent a text.
Me:Tell her I’ll take it. Thank you.
