Then we look away, catfight over, because she knows damn well my size-fourteen midriff could belly bounce her into the next aisle, if I wasn’t so afraid of prison food. So, she saunters off, flicking her high ponytail, to find organic, unsweetened kefir, and I focus on figuring out where they’ve stashed the pizza rolls in this joint. Because… to hell with my diet. I’d been starving myself hoping to impress Dan, and look what happened. I went hungry only to find out that the whole time I thought I’d been playing the lead role in his heart, I had been the understudy.
I turn the corner, hoping to head down the frozen food aisle(pizza rolls await!), but stop in my tracks when I see Lululemon lingering near the frozen spinach. Damn! I do not want to face the stiff breeze from Lululemon’s thigh gap again. No pizza rolls then, I decide, as I turn my cart. Before I’m finished, I hear a clatter and turn to see an elderly Latinx woman desperately trying to reach the top shelf for butter, but her stooped back and curled arthritic fingers mean she swipes at the brick of butter, but it slips from her stiff grip and bounces to the floor. Lululemon shoots her a frown, her disapproval of anyone over the age of forty existing clear on her face.
I abandon my cart and head to the elderly woman’s side. She looks flustered. “Dios mio,” she laments.
“Puedo ayudar,” I say, brushing off my ninth-grade Spanish. It comes in handy when elderly Latinx confuse me for one of their own. It’s a common mistake. My dad’s straight Scottish nose, paired with my mom’s tawny skin, straight black hair, and dark brown eyes mean that people see in me what they want to see. If I don’t at least try some Spanish, they shake their heads, grumbling bitter disappointments about the new generation. If I try to tell them I’m half Japanese, they look even sadder, as if I’m resorting to bald-faced lies.
I stoop to get the butter and she sends me a look of flat-out relief. I’m sure neither her knees nor her back were looking forward to the sacrifice demanded to bend to the floor.
See? I’m a freakin’ nice person. To everyone except Lululemon. She maneuvers her cart quickly away from us as if aging is contagious.
“Oooh, look!” my adopted abuela says. “Muestras.”
I don’t know that word as it’s beyond what I remember from my two years of Spanish, and my brief study-abroad stint inBarcelona. But I see the woman nod toward a small table near the bakery. She must mean “samples.” Leave it to the senior on a fixed income to find the free food. They’re better than a metal detector on Daytona Beach after spring break. I glance over, and see it’s manned by a sexy lumberjack in an apron over a red plaid flannel shirt. His sleeves are rolled up his thickly muscled forearms. He’s sporting an impressive beardstache, surrounded by a week’s worth of stubble, which somehow suits him. He looks like a rough-around-the-edges-but-with-a-heart-of-gold gigolo. His ethnicity seems hard to place, but I’d love to play eight rounds of “Who do you think my grandma is?” with him. He looks like he ought to be a butcher, elbow deep in spareribs, but instead, he’s piping frosting on delicate little raspberry tortes. The way he’s gentle with the buttercream blooms images of how soft those big, strong hands might be on delicate parts of my own anatomy. There’s nothing that gets me in the mood faster than sugar and a gentle touch.
Solo February, I remind myself, and then I almost burst out laughing, because there’s no way this stunning example of perfect manhood would ever in a million years be interested ink-r-otsweatshirt–wearing me. Not to mention, he might not even be interested in women at all.
“After you,” I say, and follow her over.
As I’m walking up to the big-shouldered man who seems equal parts sexy former professional athlete and Cake Boss, I notice his brown wavy hair is stuffed beneath a white baker’s cap, and it still doesn’t in any way make him look ridiculous. He looks like he’s burst life-size from a package of Brawny paper towels—manly, strong, and a good listener, eager to counsel a 1960s housewife on her marital troubles. In fact, he’ssurrounded by a decent crowd of people, all eager to taste his wares. He carefully doles out small desserts, one by one, and I take my place in line.
He hands the elderly woman a mini torte and she thanks him with a nod and then moves on. He glances up at me and I see the biggest, brownest, most puppy doggiest eyes of all time. Damn, he has nice eyes. Playful. Smart. Sexy. Eyes always get me. Forget butts and chests and six-pack abs—give me a good set of irises, and I’m done for. And then it comes, the crooked half smile and dimple, the way a male model might smile at himself in the mirror in a razor commercial. Hell, yes. You smile, honey. Youarethe best a man can get.
When I pull up my cart next to his table, he says, “Oh,hi,” in a tone that seems to imply what he really means:Oh,hi,you’ve got a fine ass even in those stained sweatpants. Why don’t you bring that unwashed body over here and we can really get dirty?But I’m probably imagining it.
“Want to try a raspberry delight?” he asks, and picks up a tiny little torte on a small white lace paper doily. I glance at the tiny cake, no bigger than a quarter.
“Can I have three?” I joke, but he glances once to the right and then to the left, and sneaks me four. I fall in love with him a little then, as I pop the first one in my mouth whole, and experience an instant burst of raspberry vanilla-cream goodness that feels like a hug from inside my mouth. I moan a little, unable to help myself. This is the best damn thing I’ve had in my mouth in months, and that includes bacon and Dan’s overly aggressive tongue. “Oh my God, I just came a little,” I exclaim, which I realize too late sounds completely inappropriate. The beefy baker just throws his head back and laughs, big and hearty, from his gut.
“Well, then, youmusthave another.” Sexy Beardstache Baker nudges one more toward me. He watches me as I devour it. He’s studying my mouth intently, and I get the decided vibe that he’s straight. “You might need another one even.”
“Careful. I’ll eat them all if you let me.” I sure am bold with my flirting when I’ve sworn off men for a month. Also, I’m pretty sure he’s out of my league anyway, and I have no shot at getting those beefy shoulders into my bed and giving him the reverse cowgirl of a lifetime. I crane my neck to glance up at his face and his beardstache, which makes him look just a little bit dangerous. Even through the flannel and apron, I can tell he’s got big, thick, muscular arms, and the tiniest hint of a beer belly. Not gross big, just a slight, comforting pudge. I don’t date men who won’t eat carbs. I don’t trust them.
“I knew there was a reason I liked you.” He grins, and I wonder how he knew: from thek-r-otsweatshirt? From my shameless flirting? From the fact that I’m eating mini tortes like a whale chomping down fish in a 1998 SeaWorld show? “It was nice that you helped that lady.”
I’d already forgotten my Good Samaritan works in the butter aisle. “Oh, that? It’s nothing.” If you like that, I’ll carry her on my shoulders through the store. Then she can reach anything she wants, and she won’t have to worry about her bad knees.
“And you’re an animal person.” He nods at the tons of dog treats in my cart.
“They’re for my adopted pit-mix, Larry.”
“Rescue dog mom, too? That earns you another sample.” Hehands me one. I swallow it nearly whole. He pretends to be impressed. “You’re not worried about choking?” he asks me.
“I don’t have a gag reflex.” I realize, after I say this, I sound like I’m promoting new content on an amateur porn app.
“That’s quite a skill set.” He raises his eyebrows, impressed.
I shrug. “It’s my superpower,” I say. “That and making bacon disappear.”
He glances at my cart and laughs a little. We both share extended eye contact. Then it suddenly hits me. Is this my… meet-cute? Have I fallen into an adorable rom-com? Even though I’m wearing stained yoga pants with a hole at the knee and my all-natural, aluminum-free deodorant gave out hours ago? Could it possibly be?
But then someone approaches my left flank.
“Sora?” I hear my name and I freeze, no doubt my eyes communicating sheer panic to Possible Soul Mate, because his eyebrows raise in surprise. I turn, slowly, because I don’t want to see the man attached to the voice. Please don’t be who I think it is. Please, if there’s a God at all,please,don’t let it be…
It is.
My ex-husband, Marley.
