Page 9 of Out of Place

I dig my spiked heels into the floor and put my back into it. The case moves up one step, but the momentum throws me on my ass with force.

The guys laugh.

“Are you sure?” he asks again.

I grit my teeth. “Yes. I’m sure.”

I don’t look at them. I just get up and do the same thing again, except without the falling on my ass part until I’m all the way up the stairs.

I wipe the disgusting sweat off my forehead before grabbing my other bag.

Thankfully, they’ve moved on and aren’t standing out there anymore, so they won’t be watching me slowly drag this thing up stair by stair.

This could not get any worse.

CHAPTER 4

Olivia

It got worse.

Walmart is not a place I ever need to experience again. People are in their actual pajamas. Pajamas in public! There is no way my mother knew about this. She would’ve warned me.

Aunt Dottie pushes a cart down an aisle, and I try to keep up with her in my heels. She’s basically sprinting, and it’s making my skirt ride up with the giant steps I have to take, so I’m constantly tugging it down while jogging behind her.

She finally stops under a giant blue sign that reads “Womens.”

She starts rummaging around through a stack of blue jeans. She asks my size, and when I tell her, she hands me several pairs of jeans to try on in the fitting room.

The fitting rooms look more like a bathroom than a changing room. I decide I’d rather take the chance of these not fitting than removing my clothes in one of those rooms. Who knows what kind of diseases are in there, and I wouldn’t doubt someone has a camera angled somewhere inappropriate. Nope. Too sketchy.

She grabs a few plain, boring T-shirts and some denim button-down shirts. I can’t imagine when she thinks I’m going to wear those, but I don’t say anything.

Then she takes me to the shoe section. It’s pretty much all boots. And not cute boots. They’re ‘I’m going to jump in some mud’ boots. Dottie hands me a pair of black ones and a pair of brown ones. They might be the ugliest things I’ve ever seen.

My face must show my thoughts because she says, “It’s not about looks down here, hun. You need something practical. Something you’re not afraid to get dirty. Those crystal things”—she points to my Dior boots—“aren’t gonna do a damn thing to protect your feet. You’ll be stuck in the mud in no time.”

“Fine,” I grumble as I test out the fugly boots and try not to think about the mud thing. Serena would die if she saw me right now.

“That’ll do.” She grabs both pairs and flings them in the cart. “Anything else you need while we’re here?”

“Do they sell vodka?” I mumble under my breath.

“There’s no alcohol in my house. Never has been, never will be,” she informs me.

Great.

“I guess I’m good then,” I sigh.

We head to the checkouts. Right before we get there, an older man calls Dottie’s name. She stops and turns to the man.

“How ya doin’, Jim?” She gives the man a hug.

“Doing alright, Dottie.”

“I got a good bit of eggs for ya. Come on down to the market this weekend and grab some,” she tells him.

“Wouldn’t miss it. You know Shelley loves your eggs.”