Page 6 of The Bodyguard Affair
“In case you couldn’t tell, I don’t normally do random hookups,” she declares. I don’t know if it’s a vulnerable admission or a warning.
“What changed?”
“Certain events have happened in my life recently. But I won’t bore you with the details.” Her eyes bulge at the cost of lettuce before she mumbles, “Who am I kidding? I’m not getting any vegetables.”
I try not to laugh as I follow her dutifully down the crackeraisle like a puppy. “You wouldn’t bore me, but I understand if you’d rather not share with someone you don’t know.”
“Meh. I mean, you’ve already seen…” She waves a hand vaguely to her lower half.
I stumble back and grab at the shelf for balance, nearly taking down a neatly lined row of Cheez-It boxes. “No. I really didn’t see anything. I think I actually blacked out.”
“Are you just saying that because you feel bad for me and my ugly grandma bra?”
“Nope. And it wasn’t ugly, by the way.”
She furrows her brow and points at me. “Wait, you said you blacked out and didn’t see anything!”
“I said I blacked out and didn’t see your…” I vaguely gesture back at her, and she fills in the blanks. “I didn’t say I didn’t see above the waist.”
She hides her face behind a Triscuit box before chucking it into the cart as if it wronged her.
“It really wasn’t that bad. And who cares what your bra looks like? Good tits are good tits regardless of the bra.” For a second, I’m scared that was too vulgar a statement. That’s what happens when you’re exclusively around guys 99 percent of the time—you lose your filter.
But it makes Andi smile. “That might be the most romantic line I’ve ever heard.”
I pretend to bow, relieved. “I’ll be here all night. Or as long as you want me.”
For the next half hour, we zip down every single aisle. She fills the cart with more random items, like a bag of fresh-baked crescents rolls from the bakery section, sliced turkey, a jar of hotmix pickles, and frozen pierogies. Then we do a second loop “to make sure we didn’t forget anything,” as though there was a method to the madness. It’s a good thing, because she adds marble cheese, sour cream, and bacon (for the pierogies).
“You seem to know your way around,” I note.
She shrugs. “Grocery shopping is overwhelming. That’s why I like this place. It’s never busy, at least not late at night when I come after work.”
I’m about to ask her what she does for a living, but she spots a cheesecake display in the bakery and doubles back.
“Don’t judge. This cheesecake needs me,” she says, cradling the plastic container like a baby.
I assure her I’m not judging, and we finally head to check out.
Her place is a couple blocks away, which would normally be fine if we weren’t carrying heavy groceries, and if it weren’t minus-20 degrees Celsius. I insist on taking all but one bag, leaving her with the lightest one. She protests, but ultimately concedes once she realizes she’s not getting them from my grip.
“Wow, you really live where all the action is,” I say as we turn a corner down a dark side street. There’s at least thirty people sitting in clusters around the sidewalk. I immediately slip into work mode, posture erect, senses heightened, scanning every person, shadow, alleyway, and doorway for any sign of danger.
“Yup. I had two criteria: no roaches and close to Roger’s Diner so I can have easy access to their mozzarella sticks. They’re my writing fuel,” she says far too casually, seemingly unfazed by the people. She probably does this walk all the time, which actually makes me feel worse. This area is sketchy for anyone, including me, let alone a young woman by herself at night.
“Writing fuel? Are you a writer?” I finally ask, trying to maskthe worry in my voice as we pass by the biggest clusters of people, most of whom seem too strung out to do more than watch us with vacant stares. There are still some stragglers toward the end of the block, but not as many.
She doesn’t respond for a few moments, and I’m worried I’ve hit a nerve until finally she says, “Yeah. I am. Well, kind of. It feels weird to call myself a writer. I only just started.”
“A beginner is still a writer,” I say, intrigued as we round a pile of snow shoveled inconveniently onto the sidewalk.
Before I can ask a follow-up question, an older homeless man in an oversized coat and boots with a hole in one toe approaches, eyes focused directly on Andi. Instinctively, I step in front of her, shielding her.
“Hi, Ted! How are you today?” She waves over my shoulder before going around me.
He bows his head, covered by a nice warm knit hat with a pompom. I’d peg him at around fifty, but he could be younger. His skin is weathered, patchy with some sores. Both hands are visible and relaxed, not clenched. “Well, I’m still kickin’. Got treatment for my frostbite today.”
There’s no edge in his tone, just softness, so I relax my stance marginally. Over the years, I’ve gotten better at trusting my gut. Good instincts are important in my job. You either have them or you don’t. They have to be instant, because sometimes, you need to make life-or-death decisions on the fly. And there is zero room for error.
