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“Oh, I can,” she says confidently. “How did you know it was me?”
“I heard you on the phone.”
“Forever an eavesdropper, huh?”
“Forever having distur
bingly private conversations in public, huh?”
She smiles. “Got me there.”
“Your accent is pretty unmistakable. Especially when you say the word dick.”
She lifts a brow. I lift one back.
“So, you all healed up?”
“Mostly.” I palm my chest, “there’s still emotional damage.”
She reaches in her cart and extends a bag of Twizzlers toward me. “Here, you need it more than I do.”
“I’m good. Wouldn’t want you to miss the only fruit in your cart.”
We grin at each other a beat longer before she sighs.
“So, you live around here?”
“No, I was running errands and decided to stop here instead of the store closer to home. Crazy coincidence, right?”
“Yeah.”
We spend a few minutes circling the aisles while I observe everything she tosses into her cart and it’s all junk. Doritos. Doritos. Doritos and one bag of sour cream and onion chips for variety.
“Having a party?”
“No. Why?”
“No reason,” I say, biting back a smile. “You might want to get another bag.”
“Don’t judge me. I’m post breakup.”
“If memory serves me correctly, you’re the one who did the heartbreaking.”
“It’s still a breakup,” she admonishes.
“I’m just trying to save you from clogged arteries.”
I lift my hands from my cart in surrender as she peruses its contents. “Leave it to you to be so disciplined.”
“Eh, I have food allergies, like, if I eat a peanut or most any nut, and there is no EpiPen around, I die. I rarely eat out. And I live in a house full of athletes with zero percent body fat.”
“Not cool,” she says with a sigh, “you know I’m trying to cut down on those.”
“Sorry, if it helps, they’re both acting like fuckboys at the moment.”
“It does help, thanks.”
“Anytime.”
