Page 28 of Something Borrowed

Vic tidied the kitchen, getting rid of the pizza evidence, rinsing the used pop and juice bottles and putting them in recycling. It took no time at all. Her brain was chewing over the evening. She couldn’t turn it off. She checked the time on her phone. Almost 11:45. Late. She should go to bed. She had work in the morning. She started down the hall, then paused.

11:45 wasn’t that late. She wasn’t tired. She was wired. The Second Chance Shop didn’t open until 10:00. She could go for a walk, burn off her anxiety and stress, and still have plenty of time for rest. Better rest, in fact. Yes, she’d definitely sleep better if she walked for a bit. Maybe she’d go to 7-11. It was close. She could pick up something for lunch tomorrow.

Don’t do it, Angel warned. You’re setting yourself up for a fall.

It’s 7-11, not the mall or something tempting. It’ll be fine.

It won’t be fine. I know you.

She is us, dipshit. And we’re her. And it will be fine. She hasn’t taken so much as an extra mint at a restaurant in weeks.

More like one week, barely.

The inner argument didn’t diminish Vic’s desire to walk. It increased it. Who knew if she’d even bother with 7-11? But if she did, she certainly wouldn’t take anything.

Vic quietly made her way to the boot room, where she slid into a pair of sherpa-lined sneakers, zipped on a lightweight parka, and grabbed gloves just in case.

Do not go to 7-11.

Fine, Vic shot back. I won’t.

The lights were incredibly bright in 7-11. Were they always so bright?

Vic made a mental list of what she’d purchase. She hadn’t had junk food in a long while. Just never got around to buying any. Her head swiveled as she took in the rows of primary-colored packages of every kind of sugar-laden, salty and crunchy, or soft and chewy snack a person could imagine. She’d get . . . salt and vinegar kettle chips and maybe a chocolate bar of some kind?

I thought you were buying lunch at the store that you weren’t going to go to.

She grabbed the chips and chocolate, then hesitated by a cooler and selected a six-inch clubhouse. It was probably disgusting, but whatever.

On the way to the orange counter where the till sat beside a stainless-steel hot bar of deep-fried food, Vic got sidetracked by a spinning rack of a huge variety of keychains.

You don’t need a keychain.

I’m not buying a keychain.

Don’t take a keychain.

I won’t!

A sparrow caught her eye. It was enameled metal, about three inches long, with an old-fashioned look to it. It reminded her of vintage tattoo art or something. It was . . . really cool.

You don’t need it. Angel was relentless.

But you want it, Devil said.

She did want it. It was fun, a little bit edgy, but also nostalgic or something. It was almost twenty bucks! Ridiculous—but also not the point.

She didn’t really have a need for it. She couldn’t just keep filling up her room with knickknacks and random crap. But it was so cute.

You can afford it. If you really have to have it, just buy it.

But why? It’s probably, like, a 200 percent markup. Maybe more. So-called convenience stores always try to rip people off.

Vic considered several other keychains. Whoever designed them had obviously had fun with them. A cheerful red duo of 50s-style cherries caught her fancy. And a solitary spiked-heel shoe, its surface embellished with tiny, glittering faux diamonds.

They probably brought the whole lot in from China for a buck a piece.

And what if they did? There’s no crime against that.