Total pages in book: 158
Estimated words: 151469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 757(@200wpm)___ 606(@250wpm)___ 505(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 757(@200wpm)___ 606(@250wpm)___ 505(@300wpm)
“You’re there because of me?” he asks, surprised.
“I’m not doing it for you.” I’m doing it for myself, although I’m wishing I hadn’t. Superstores at night are far nicer places to be.
“So you’ll come to the opera with me?”
I close my eyes. “What do you think?” I’m not braving Walmart in the middle of the day on a Saturday for my health.
“You stormed out Thursday night.”
“I’ve answered your call, haven’t I?” Even if it was a little selfish. Besides, his message insisted. Is he surprised I’m complying?
“Are you saying we should never hold grudges?”
I smile, and it’s unstoppable. If he only knew of the grudges I hold. But with him? He’s offering me too much respite. “I have a list,” I say, changing the subject.
“What’s on your list, Beau?”
My mind blank, I locate my notes and reel off my list.
“And what have you got so far?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
“Shall we start with milk? Nice and easy.”
“What?”
“I’m coming shopping with you.”
“What?”
“Turn around.”
I slowly pivot and lose my breath for all the right reasons when I see him at the end of the aisle. My lip wobbles. Why is my lip wobbling? My heart gallops. I don’t need to ask why that is. I disconnect the call and pull my buds from my ears, my focus on James and James alone. The store and all its crazy disappears. He looks perfectly rugged and unshaven, his messy hair poking out of a baseball cap, his body casually covered in some sweatpants and a zip-up hoodie. He’s perfectly calm. Perfectly impassive. It’s James on a weekend, and I like it.
I force a smile, as if to assure him I’m okay, and he shakes his head, looking almost angry. It’s me who should be angry. I know he must have followed me, but it doesn’t weird me out. I’m too relieved he’s here.
He strides toward me, and once he makes it to me, he takes the handle of the cart with one hand and tucks me into his side with the other. He walks us to the milk aisle without a word, while I gaze at him in wonder. He’s like a shot of valium. A balm for my tortured soul. Does he know that? Part of me hopes so. Another part of me hopes not, because I shouldn’t offer him more ammo to use against me.
I collect a gallon of 2% milk. “A mango. Eggs. Coffee. Bread,” I say quietly.
He hears me, and that’s where we head, collecting each thing one by one. He’s quiet and patient. His presence is powerful, attention falling on him from all directions, and yet he’s unassuming. Oblivious. It’s as if he’s walking in a world where nothing else exists to him. Surroundings. People. Sounds. I’m envious. So envious of his ability to blank out everything.
He looks down at me nestled into his side and pulls me in tighter.
I exist.
And I’m in so much trouble. Yet denying myself this feeling is impossible. It would be cruel. Almost barbaric. I’m done punishing myself.
At the checkout, I unload while James packs, and I discreetly watch him, unable to stop my small smile. “Is me packing groceries amusing?” he asks without looking up, his focus set on his task.
I pay, joining him at the other end. “You following me is amusing.”
“You weren’t supposed to know I was following you.”
“Then you need to work on your stealth skills.”
He smiles lightly as he slips the milk into a bag, and it’s a vision to behold. “Clearly.” He collects my shopping and we head for the exit, and when we make it outside, I stop and look back at the store doors, where the chaos continues inside. Chaos that I was apparently immune to with James by my side. I mustn’t read too much into that, and I can’t be proud of myself, because those kind of shopping trips—ones only with James—aren’t viable.
“Beau?”
I pull my eyes from the crowds and notice he’s stopped a few feet away. His casual form renders me unable to move for a moment, my eyes happy to admire him, my heart hammering for the right reasons.
So. Much. Trouble.
I swallow and join him, beating back the swirling questions, because I promised myself I wouldn’t ask. And beating back my awe because darkness shouldn’t be admired.
We make it to my car and James slips the bags onto the passenger seat. “You don’t lock your car?”
“I don’t think anyone would steal it,” I say on an ironic smile.
He looks up and down the battered length of Dolly a few times. “You should lock it.” His eyebrows slowly rise, a clear sign of him wanting my agreement. I think if James asked me to walk on hot coals mixed with broken glass in this moment, I would do it.
“I’ll lock her,” I confirm, falling into the driver’s seat. James is crouching by me in a second, assessing the inside of Dolly. The threadbare seats, the worn carpet, the ripped cloth of the roof lining. “She’s sentimental,” I tell him. “My mother bought her for me.”