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No idea.

Thank God I didn’t put the hemorrhoid cream or adult diapers in it.

I look at Roman. He’s busy scanning items at the self-checkout.

Of course he is. Roman doesn't strike me as the kind of man who makes small talk with a cashier.

I watch him scan and bag the items.

Everything practical. Bananas. Meat. Vegetables. Coffee. Eggs. Bread.

Nothing impulsive or unnecessary.

I bite back a laugh. Even his groceries are emotionally unavailable.

Roman's head turns slightly. I immediately look down at my basket.

Pickles.

When the hell did I put them in there?

Roman finishes paying.

I wait, pretending to look at some candy as he leaves.

I give him thirty seconds.

Then forty.

I'm learning patience.

At forty-five, I head for self-checkout.

The employee supervising the registers looks into my basket, then at me.

I smile. “Meal planning.”

She nods, clearly not convinced.

I scan my completely insane assortment of groceries, then pay.

Outside, Roman's truck is gone.

That's okay. I wasn't planning to follow him home today.

Mostly because I still don't know where home is.

This was reconnaissance.

I walk toward my rental car.

My phone buzzes. I stop and pull it out.

It’s Roman.

My heart does a stupid little thing.

I open the message.