I grab a bunch more wine that I tell myself is for cooking purposes. At least I didn’t snatch up two bottles of vodka. Progress?
For some reason, I can’t find eggs anywhere, but I pretend that I don’t care even though nearly every one of my recipes requires eggs. At this point, I need to get out of here.
Because my heaping shopping cart would presumably alarm anyone, I’m not surprised when the cashier raises her eyebrows as she scans item after item. “Having a party, yes?”
“Sure, a party.” I smile.
“Celebrating being back home?”
Rummaging through my purse for my wallet buys me a pause in responding. I listen to the beeps of the scanner as she runs my items through and try to think of a reply.
“You’re Mike and Cindy’s kid, right?” she continues.
This is the first time that anyone has said my father’s name out loud in years, and I try not to react.Mike.It’s always beenhusband, father, uncle.But never with a name attached. Nobody wanted to make it too real. But my dad’s name was Mike.
Without comment, I look up and nod. She might be pushing seventy, but her sweet smile and Grace Kelly French twist make her look years younger. More importantly, she exudes kindness.
“Callie, right?” She continues scanning my stupidly large pile of groceries. “I’m Amelia. I’m sure you don’t remember me, but I remember you. Heard you were coming back to Wake.” She squints at the tag on my tomatoes before punching in a code. “Could these numbers be any smaller? Christ almighty. Anyway, welcome back. Happy to see you.”
“Thank you.”
“And best of luck with that cock chicken thing.” Amelia hands me my receipt and whispers, “Sounds sexy AF.”
