Page 45 of The Wild Card

The woman blinks, then smiles. “Thank you, dear. Are you a chef?”

“Cookbook author. But I burn things more often than I’d like to admit.”

The woman laughs. They chat for another minute—about lemon bars, about the woman’s granddaughter who’s learning to bake, about the weather. By the time we move on, Emmie knows the woman’s name is Dorothy, her granddaughter is named Lily, and she lives in the apartments off Cedar Springs.

“You do that a lot,” I say.

“Do what?”

“Talk to strangers.”

“They’re not strangers. They’re just people I haven’t met yet.” She grabs a bunch of green onions and examines them. “You should try it sometime.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Shocking.” But she’s smiling.

We move through the store. She takes her time, and for some strange reason, I don’t try to rush her.

This is different from how I shop. I have a list. I have a route. I’m in and out in fifteen minutes, max. Eggs, chicken, protein powder, broccoli—done.

Emmie treats it like an experience. She wanders down the international aisle “just to see what’s new.” She stops at the cheese section and debates three different types of feta with the intensity of a hostage negotiator. She waves at a stock boy like they’re old friends.

“Hey! Did that hot sauce ever come back in?”

“Next week,” he calls back. “I’ll save you a bottle.”

“You’re the best!”

She turns back to me, beaming.

“Do you know everyone who works here?” I ask.

“Just the important ones.”

We end up in the cereal aisle, which I have no reason to be in. But she’s looking for something specific—some kind of granola with “the good clusters, not the dusty bits”—and I’m pushing the cart, so here I am.

“Do you even eat breakfast?” she asks, scanning the shelves.

“Protein shake. And eggs.”

“That’s not breakfast. That’s fuel.”

“Breakfast is fuel.”

She makes a face. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. It should be enjoyable. Pancakes. Waffles. A really good omelet.” She finds her granola and tosses it in the cart. “I’m making you pancakes this weekend.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Chocolate chip. From scratch. Non-negotiable.”

I don’t argue. I’ve already learned arguing with her over food is pointless.

At checkout, she chats with the cashier—a tired-looking woman in her fifties whose name tag says Cindi. Within two minutes, Emmie has learned that Cindi has been on her feet since six, her daughter just had a baby, and she’s counting down the days until her vacation to Galveston.

“You deserve that beach,” Emmie says, completely sincere. “Put your feet up. Drink something with an umbrella in it.”

Cindi laughs—a real laugh, surprised out of her. “I like you.”