Page 5 of The False Flat

I’d ride away from my mother.

Hell, I’d ride away from all my problems, like usual.

My stomach growled like a vicious animal as I rode into the Publix parking lot, secured my bicycle, and headed straight to the cereal aisle, unconcerned with my sweat-stained T-shirt. Kids’ cereal wasn’t a glamorous dinner choice for a thirty-two-year-old, successful (?) financial planner, but it kept me functional.

There he was, nestled between a box of bran flakes on one side and little heart-healthy circles on the other: the sexiest Cap’n I’d ever seen. I rolled my eyes at myself as I licked my lips. When had a cartoon man with a spoon in his hand incited such lust? I shrugged. Being Mrs. Crunch wasn’t the worst thing, but what was the worst thing was the perky woman who also appeared to want to be Mrs. Crunch.

Nuh-uh. Not today. Not now. Not when there was only one box of the Crunch Berries kind left—the other options, the peanut butter, the plain pillows, the Oops! All Berries, weren’t going to cut it. Not when my mother was annoying me, and Chad was calling, and I’d been looking forward to this treat for hours now. I was leaving on the arm of the Cap’n if I had to throw down on aisle four to make that happen. I towered over her, every inch of my six feet filled with an irritation her happy little face probably hadn’t ever experienced.

I could take her.

We reached for the box at the same time, but the woman pulled short and put her hands on her hips. “Okay, how can you eat this and stay so fit?” she asked, a defiant grin on her face.

“You look fine,” I said, the sole box of Crunch Berries held in my Momma’s-keepin’-her-man death grip. And then I thought she’d be a good number two because she was second to arrive at the final box.

This was also the third time since moving to Nashville that I’d been in the store and someone had just started talking to me. A few days ago, I’d been wondering if I’d made a horrible mistake by moving to Nashville, missing my job and, alarmingly, Chad. I’d hopped onto my bicycle without noticing the dark storm clouds. Rain had seized my flattened hair and frizzed every single strand.

I’d been a little worried about moving to the South, but I definitely hadn’t expected an older Black woman to come up to me in this very grocery store, touch the untamed animal on my head, and ask me who was Black, my mom or dad? I was so taken aback I couldn’t remember what I said. I think I short-circuited at the uninvited touch. I’d gone to the salon the next day for a keratin relaxer, a tear-inducing and semipermanent antifrizzing treatment.

She’d been nice enough, but it made me want to hide.

This woman, however, didn’t appear to want to touch my now stick-straight hair. I tried to picture my icy, northern mother talking to a random stranger next to the line of cereal boxes. My mother, nose in the air, would’ve stalked off, but my mother would’ve never reached for a box of sweet, crunchy cereal in the first place. A much more digestively sensible Shredded Wheat was her thing.

“Fine?” the two said with a sigh. “One hour on the Peloton, every day, and yoga three times a week. And I look ‘fine’? Maybe it’s best there’s only one box.”

Great. I’d offended her. “I didn’t mean—”

“I’m kidding. Well, not about the Peloton, or the yoga, but I’m a caterer, around food all the time, so if I sample—and I always sample—I have to pay. And you don’t even want to know what I was going to do with that cereal.”

“‘Do’ with it? You weren’t going to eat it?”

The woman laughed. “I wasn’t going to eat it like a civilized person with milk, if that’s what you’re asking. But desperate times . . . someone bought the B and B space I’ve had my eye on for the past month now. I was going to add it to my ice cream sundae. Comfort food.”

I stared at my arm—my own arm—as I watched my betraying appendage extend the yellow box toward the woman. “Here.” What the hell was I doing?

The woman reached her hand out, then pulled it back, eyeing me, probably also wondering what the hell I was doing.

“What’s your story?” she asked. “Because if this is medicine for you, too, then the only fair thing is to figure out who needs it most.”

She was giving me the chance to come to my senses and run away with my treat like a ninja in dark leggings. It’s what I should’ve done, but instead, I said, “We could ask customer service if they have any in the back . . .” She could ask customer service, because this box was mine.

“We could, but that would require hunting someone down and explaining the situation and me admitting to another person I can’t cope with life’s disappointments. So . . .”

A laugh flew out of my mouth before I could stop it. She was serious. She seriously wanted me to tell her why I wanted—needed—this box of cereal.

What the hell? I probably wasn’t ever going to see her again.

“My dad died six months ago, my mother now wants to control my life, I quit my job because my boss is a jerk, I don’t know if I’m capable of running my own business because I don’t have a plan, and, turns out, my boyfriend had a wife.” The faces on the cereal boxes cheered, or maybe that was the blood rushing through my ears because I’d opened up to a stranger in the middle of a grocery store.

At least I hadn’t said that my dad was a cheating alcoholic, that my mother had always been a control freak, or that my brother had died when I was twelve and I’d never properly coped. This woman was a stranger, after all.

But if I was being honest with myself—let’s get real, I was never honest with myself—I had to admit it felt good saying those truths.

Was this what it was like having a friend? I hadn’t had one since elementary school, and then not even my childhood bestie Chelsea wanted to be friends after . . . I let the thought drop. I might’ve spilled part of my misery to the woman who shared my love of Cap’n Crunch, but if I let my thoughts go there, I’d turn into a babbling puddle, awaiting cleanup by a Publix employee.

Instead of replying, the woman snatched the box out of my hand and opened it. “Wow. I’m inspired by your honesty. We both need this cereal, and after what you just told me, we both need it right now.” She reached into the bag, pulled out a handful of electric-yellow pillows and medicinal, psychedelic balls, moaned as she crunched them between her teeth, then tilted the box toward me, an invitation to munch alongside her.

What was the proper etiquette here? An old man in a T-shirt and suspenders pushed a cart full of cat food around us. I looked at him with apology.