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“Oh. Well, this”—I clear my throat and point to the bunch of radishes on my left hand—“reminds me what happens when I don’t control my temper.” I push back the little spurt of shame that memory always dredges up and point at the anatomically correct heart surrounded by a ring of flames on my right hand. “And this reminds me that cooking means caring about people.”
I can almost smell the char of my vulnerability in the air around us as I explain the significance that I’ve never shared with anyone else. Since she’s not saying anything, I keep talking.
“They help me see the person I want to be.” My voice is quiet in the brittle night air. “I’m not quite there yet, and I don’t know what that last little push I need might be. But for now, these are good reminders.”
The hum of the streetlight overhead is the only sound for a beat, and then she pulls my hand to her mouth and presses a light kiss on the heart inked there. The flesh-and-blood counterpart in my chest squeezes in response.
“Okay. Here’s hoping you don’t have to haul me all the way to Chicago tonight.”
As we strap back into my car, I bite my tongue to keep from telling her that I’ll drive her to Alaska and back if that’s what it takes to chase away the last of her worry.
5
GRACE
“Shit,”Cam mutters when he pulls into a dark parking lot. The pharmacy sign isn’t lit, and the other slots are all empty, but he still throws it into park and jumps out of the car to check the sign on the door.
“Closed until January 2,” he says grimly. “I think there’s another one—”
“Seventh and Frontier.” I lift my eyes from the phone to see him watching me closely. “Says it’s open until eight.”
He simply nods and pulls out, and I’m pathetically grateful for his company on this wild-goose chase. The drive is quiet until we pull up to the small brick building I’ve driven past a million times and never given a second thought to. The lights shine through the massive front window.
“That’s a good sign,” Cam says.
“Hope so.” I jam the hat on my head, preparing to brave the cold one more time. The snow’s let up, but the night air is hard, and I’m tired and hungry and emotionally wrung out.
I’ve delayed long enough that Cam’s already out and around to my side of the car. He holds the door open and looks like he’s ready to offer me his hand like I’m a Bridgerton stepping out of a carriage. I let him take it, glad for the strength of his fingers, and we head inside together.
A pharmacist whose face is far smoother than it should be given his shock of cottony white hair is patiently going over the dosage instructions for a tired-looking woman with a baby on her hip. We fall in line behind her, and Cam doesn’t put his arm around me as we wait, but I kind of wish he would. He’s been surprisingly great tonight, keeping quiet when I need him to and joking me into distraction when I’m starting to let panic creep in around the edges.
After what seems like an eternity, the mother and her red-cheeked child leave in a flurry of thank-yous and sniffly noses, and we take our place at the counter.
“How can I help you folks?” the man asks.
“Emergency contraception,” I say. “Please.” I’m too tired to go through the rigmarole of asking for Ella because it works better for people at a higher weight, which is definitely me. At this point, I’ll take any pill this man will give me.
Ah. But this man isn’t going to give me any damn thing, is he? His welcoming expression slides right off his face as I speak, and his look of disgust hits me square in the solar plexus.
“My store doesn’t carry that,” he bites out. “Please leave.”
“You’re kidding.” I give a disbelieving laugh. “You’re a pharmacist. This is literally your job.”
“My job is to protect human life.” His serene smile is a jarring contrast to the words spewing from his mouth. “Allhuman life.”
I’m too shocked to hesitate before speaking. “You do know that emergency contraception doesn’t actually cause an abortion, right?” I snap. “And even if it did—”
“Even if it did, it’s not your place to decide for her what she does with her body.” Cam’s voice is tight and furious, and I grab his hand and squeeze it, grateful for his support. It helps me speak up even though every part of me is cringing about this brewing confrontation.
“Birth control is still legal the last time I checked,” I inform the man, who calmly raises his brows.
“Religious exemption.”
“Your boss,” Cam growls. “Your manager. Let me talk to the person who can fire your ass.”
“I’m the owner.” The man’s placid expression curdles into a sneer as he looks from Cam to me. “Next time, I’d advise you to think twice about sharing your favors, young lady. Now please leave my store.”
Blood pounds in my ears. Nothing makes me angrier than a smug asshole, and here, among the antacids and painkillers and ankle wraps, I’m pissed off and ready to rumble.
