“You scared of me?”
She scoffed. “Of course not.”
But her gaze went to the cut again, and she stiffened impossibly more.
Taking that as my sign to leave, I stepped around her to the next area.
But I ran into the two an aisle later in the bread aisle.
“What do you think?” Wendy asked me. “Should we get stupid wheat bread with nine whole grains? Or this awesome white bread with a house on it?”
I eyed the wheat bread that I usually bought with nine grains, then the white bread.
The wave of nostalgia for my mom’s sandwiches hit me so hard that I picked up the white bread instead of the wheat.
“See, Mom!” Wendy cried. “Even he buys the house bread!”
Constance glared at me like I’d just committed a crime. “Of course he’d choose the bad stuff.” Under her breath she replied with, “Because he’s bad.”
I didn’t comment, then grabbed the nine-grain as well that I would normally eat and tossed it into my basket.
The next aisle I caught them on was the pasta aisle.
“We could get macaroni like this.” Wendy held up the box.
Fuck, there was that wave of nostalgia again.
I hadn’t had Kraft macaroni and cheese since I’d seen the damn studies on it saying it was toxic.
But a fond smile lifted up the corner of my lips. I’d cooked macaroni and cheese for my mom and dad a lot when I was younger. They’d get off work late, and the only thing I could competently cook for them was that.
I caught a single box up from above Wendy’s head, dropped it into my basket that was getting way heavier as I followed around a five-year-old, and kept walking.
“Constance, seriously.” Wendy groaned animatedly.
I had to hide the damn smile again as I walked down the aisle toward the condiments that I’d originally come down the aisle for.
I needed the good mayo if I was going to make the right kind of sandwich.
After grabbing up some Hellmann’s, I went to the chip aisle.
And this time, I was the first one there as I studied the multitude of brands and types.
I was lifting up the bag of plain Lays when a hand stopped my progress.
Wendy again.
“No, this one,” she spoke eagerly. “They’re spicy pickle.”
She guided my hand to the ones that she liked and I didn’t bother to deny it.
She was doing good with my bad cravings tonight.
“10-4,” I acknowledged. “Thanks.”
She saluted me and headed back to her mom who was at the end of the aisle glaring at me.
I dismissed her and headed for the checkout, getting in line with my least favorite person in town.
