Jillie stares.
A woman at the end of the aisle audibly gasps.
I hold up the dented loaf.
"I found the bad one."
Sadie's shoulders shake once.
"You're banned from bread selection."
"Probably wise."
Jillie pats my sleeve. "Mommy's very serious about baked things. Once Darren bought sandwich rolls from a gas station and Mommy said she needed quiet time."
Sadie's smile disappears so fast I nearly feel it.
There it is.
That name again.
I hate him a little more in that moment.
Not because he dated Sadie. Not because he cheated.
Because even in a grocery aisle, in the middle of a ridiculous morning, his absence still has weight.
I reach for another loaf, carefully this time.
"How's this one?"
Sadie looks over.
Our hands brush when she takes it.
It is nothing. A half second. Barely contact. Still, she stills. So, do I.
Then Jillie says, "That's good bread behavior," and the moment breaks clean in two.
Thank goodness for children.
Then again, children are a menace.
We move to coffee next, which is a mistake because Mrs. Bellamy has apparently multiplied. There are now three women near the end of the aisle pretending to examine tea.
None of them are examining tea.
Sadie slows. "Absolutely not," she mutters.
"What?"
"This aisle has witnesses."
"Most aisles have witnesses. That's how stores work."
"Not like that."
She's right. Mrs. Bellamy is holding chamomile like surveillance equipment.
