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Something in which I most certainly did not want to do. Not when my brother was there, still more than capable of ruining my life if he felt so inclined.
Something he had done.
I quickly shook off those thoughts.
No, I couldn’t do it.
I wouldn’t think about how it had all gone bad.
I wouldn’t.
I wouldn’t.
I wouldn’t.
“Are you ready, ma’am?”
I looked up into the eyes of the teen checker that was standing there, looking at me like I was working on her last nerve.
“Yes, I’m sorry,” I apologized, starting to stack the boxes onto the belt.
“I think there’s a limit of ten on these.”
I looked at her and frowned.
“Since when?” I questioned.
“Today,” she answered. “It was in the store meeting with the managers.”
I frowned. “What’s to stop me from buying ten, checking out, then getting another ten?”
The teen looked dumbfounded at that.
“Well, I guess nothing,” she admitted.
“Then why would it matter if I bought over ten?” I pushed.
The teen reached over and flipped on her help light.
“I’ll ask for you,” she replied snappishly.
I gritted my teeth.
I needed them not to argue with me.
Mostly because if they argued with me, and refused to give me all that was in my cart, I might very well lose my shit.
I was having a really, really bad day.
I most certainly didn’t want to end it with this chick telling me I couldn’t have eighteen boxes of Christmas Tree Little Debbies.
Something in which I think she saw in my eyes as she waited warily for her manager to slowly meander her way to us.
“Can I help you, Candy?” the manager asked, looking tired.
“You said today they were only allowed ten of these, and this lady has EIGHTEEN.”
I gritted my teeth as the teen, Candy, announced it to not just her manager, but the entire goddamn store.
Oh, look at this fat ass in checkout eighteen! she might as well have said. She’s probably going to have diabetes when she’s done here.
“Is she using coupons?” the manager asked Candy.
“No,” Candy replied. “Does that matter?”
“Yes, Candy,” the manager replied. “She’s allowed to get however much she wants, as long as she’s not using a coupon to get them for free. That was the only reason that we made the rule.”
I crossed my arms and waited for Candy to let that sink in, and at first, I got a little worried that comprehension wasn’t her best skill.
But then she nodded. “I think I remember that.”
I think I remember that, I mocked inwardly. Stupid heifer.
“May I see your ID?” the manager asked when Candy reached for the bottle of wine.
I would’ve rolled my eyes had I had the energy.
Instead of arguing, I reached into my purse, extracted my wallet, and then pulled out my identification. Handing it to her, I waited for whatever she was going to do with it before taking it back.
“I knew you looked familiar.”
I yanked the receipt out of the woman’s hands and prayed that she wouldn’t announce to the world who I was.
That was how it’d gone bad the last time, thanks to my brother.
The moment that George and I had gotten together, Dodger had this bee under his bonnet when it came to us. He wanted exclusive stories, and interviews that George never offered to anybody.
I hadn’t realized just how bad it had gotten until the day of Diamond’s accident.
George had met me at the hospital as we sat and waited for news on Diamond’s condition. Then my brother, showing up not because of Diamond, but because of George being there and unable to leave, had chosen to ask him questions.
George had answered them, and me not realizing what had been going on, just let the questions go.
I hadn’t realized until much later that the questions had been super invasive.
And things that he didn’t even talk about in general—not even with me.
It’d been reading the article that Dodger had put out that had clued me in.
At least, later.
During Diamond’s ordeal, and the next five months, I hadn’t cared much about George. I’d treated him like crap while I tried to get my sister fixed up.
Which had been the biggest mistake of my life.
I’d been emotional, and I loved my sister.
But Diamond had been in the wrong. She’d nearly shot my husband all because she thought he was an intruder.
She’d been protecting our son. Why she’d been doing it like that, I didn’t know.
But now I could see that I’d overreacted, and I didn’t know how to fix it.
I was literally clueless.
I’d thrown a lot of words at George that night.
I’d told him how he’d fast-forwarded through my life. How he’d married me and knocked me up so I’d stay with him, unable to leave. How he’d ruined my life.
I’d said such awful things that I wish I could carve those awful memories out of my brain so I’d quit repeating them every single night in my dreams—waking and asleep.
