Page 45

“Yeah. Sorry.” My voice is too thin.

He looks at me strangely, his eyes lingering a beat too long. Derek is twenty-two, with perpetually chapped lips and a faded snake tattoo on his forearm that he probably thinks makes him look dangerous.

He’s asked me out three times in the past few months, even though I have never once expressed romantic interest in him. I think he likes the idea of converting me into someone fun.

His definition of fun is getting drunk in parking lots and throwing up behind dumpsters.

“Okay,” he says slowly, drawing out the word.

He opens the refrigerator, releasing a wave of cold air and the onion smell. He shoves the yogurts onto a crowded shelf.

“You look tired.” He says it like an accusation.

“I am.”

“Party?” He grins, showing a chipped tooth.

I try to laugh, but it comes out as a dry huff. “No.”

“Lucky. I closed last night.” He leans against the fridge and crosses his arms.

“That doesn’t sound lucky.”

“For you, dumbass.” He says it without heat, a habit.

“Oh.”

He picks up the banana again, starts tossing it from one calloused hand to the other. “We’re going to Mark’s tonight. You should come.”

“I can’t.”

“You always can’t.”

“I have stuff.”

“What stuff?” He catches the banana and holds it, waiting.

Avoiding homicide investigations. Trying not to have panic attacks in the cereal aisle. Listening to my mother complain about a dead man she thinks abandoned her. Wondering if every black sedan I see has a bullet with my name on it inside.

Obviously unable to say all that, I instead mumble, “You know. Stuff.”

Derek rolls his eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t stick. “One day you’re gonna wake up thirty and realize you never did shit.”

My chest tightens, a familiar vise. Wade said almost the same thing last week, leaning against our kitchen counter. Not those exact words, but the same idea.

I lower my gaze to the scuffed toes of my shoes. “Maybe…”

“Jesus, dude. Depressing.” He pushes off from the fridge, banana still in hand. “Your loss.”

The door swings shut behind him with a final-sounding click.

I wait in the sudden silence, counting the thumps of my heart until they slow from a sprint to a jog. The light above me buzzes like a trapped insect.

When my ten minutes are over, I stand, my legs feeling unsteady.

The rest of the shift passes without any more loud, sudden noises or dark sedans idling by the entrance. I stock cereal boxes, their cardboard edges digging into my arms. Break down boxes in the back alley where the air is cold and smells like rotting lettuce. Help a woman locate gluten-free flour even though she is standing directly in front of it, her finger practically touching the bag. Ring backup when the checkout lines get too long, and the beeping of scanners starts to sound like a countdown.

At 12:30, I eat an applesauce cup that somebody abandoned unopened in the break room refrigerator three weeks ago.