"Five more minutes," I tell her. "Then we need to do a grocery run."
She groans but doesn't argue. Progress.
The SaveMart off Route 10 is fluorescent lights and scuffed floors and a produce section that's seen better days. But it's cheap, and it's anonymous, and nobody here knows who I am or who I used to be married to. I push my cart down the cereal aisle with Amelia walking beside me, her hand trailing along the shelves, fingers brushing every box she passes.
"Can we get the one with marshmallows?"
"Absolutely not."
"But Lily's mom lets her?—"
"Lily's mom isn't here. I am. And I say no marshmallows for breakfast."
She pouts, but it's half-hearted. We both know this dance.
I'm comparing prices on pasta sauce — store brand versus the one that actually has some flavor — when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it. Probably a spam call. Probably nothing.
But my stomach tightens anyway, the way it always does now. Pavlovian response. Phone rings, body braces for impact.
We check out. The total is less than I budgeted for, which feels like a small victory. I load the bags into the trunk and we head home.
"Can I go play in the yard when we get home?"
"After you help me carry groceries."
"But they're heavy."
"Then you'll get strong."
We pull into the driveway. I'm calculating how many trips this is going to take — three, maybe four — when I notice him.
The neighbor. Standing in his own driveway, wiping his hands on a rag, watching us.
No. Not us.
Me.
I swallow and focus very hard on unbuckling my seatbelt. Amelia's already out of the car, bouncing on her heels, clearly more interested in the prospect of yard time than in helping with anything.
"Grab a bag," I tell her.
"The small one?"
"Any one."
I circle to the trunk and start pulling out grocery bags, slinging handles over my arms until I'm carrying way more than is smart.
The paper bag with the eggs and the glass jar of pasta sauce is the last one. I hook it into the crook of my elbow and turn toward the house?—
And the bag rips.
Time slows down the way it does in those moments. I see the bottom give out, see the eggs and the sauce and the carton of milk all start to fall, and I know I can't catch them, know I'm about to watch twenty dollars of groceries splatter across my driveway?—
A hand shoots out and grabs the sauce jar an inch before it hits the pavement.
The eggs aren't so lucky. They crack against the concrete, yolks spreading in a sad yellow puddle.
But the hand — large, calloused, wrapped around the jar of Ragú like it weighs nothing — belongs to him.
