You could have avoided her like you do everyone else.
I forget half my list. I circle aisles twice. I stand in front of the pasta for an unreasonable amount of time, staring at it like it might explain itself.
At checkout, I’m mentally reassuring myself that I still don’t like people. After all, I haven’t said a word to the cashier, unless a grunting sound when she asked if I found everything okay counts as conversation.
Movement catches my eye through the large front windows.
Ivy approaches a sleek black car, a couple of bags in each hand. She bounces toward it like a cheerleader about to wave pom poms, completely oblivious to everything around her.
An older gentleman steps out, takes the bags, and loads them in the trunk. Then he opens the door for her.
A memory of the conversation we had outside the bar hits me.
Her driver. Of course.
She slides into the seat, then turns her head as if she feels my stare. Our eyes lock through the glass.
Oh, shit.
Look away.
Look away.
I don’t.
She lifts a hand and waves.
I wave back.
The driver closes the door and walks around the car. Through the tinted window, I feel her gaze linger, warming my skin.
I finally look away, heat crawling up my neck.
Stop encouraging this.
You don’t like people. Remember?
The cashier asks how my day is going.
I grunt.
She stops making small talk and gives me my total. I slide my card through the machine, then grab my bags and leave, clinging to the lie like a life raft.
I still don’t like people.
I’m just… tolerating Ivy.
That’s all.
6
SEBASTIAN
I like routines. They keep things orderly. Predictable. Safe.
Or so I tell myself.
Since moving to Hollow Creek a month ago, I’ve established a routine. Morning run whilenotthinking about Ivy. Coffee. Shower. Work. Home. Sometimes another run if my thoughts get too loud. Pretend to watch TV while activelynotthinking about Ivy Hart. Sleep. Repeat.
