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“I’m Garrett Bowman,” Bowie told her, and offered a hand to shake. Her own hand looked like a toddler’s in comparison. “It’s nice to meet you, ma’am.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Martha echoed. As I started to ring up the food, she told him, “Let me call my son to load your car.”
“No, that’s all right. I’ll be able to carry this,” he answered. “Lissa, do you need my help with bagging?” Martha took his place unloading and it turned out, he was a remarkably skilled bagger and he described his technique as he worked. “It’s all about weight distribution,” he explained. “A lot of people will get caught up in fitting in the odd-sized items, but that’s not where your focus should be.”
“That’s an interesting approach,” I answered. “You do have three huge watermelons still in the second cart that will need to fit somewhere.”
“Those are heavy. I’ll get them,” he said to Martha, and stepped around to place the giant fruits on the belt before returning to his bags. “This was one of my jobs in high school and if I’m going to do something, I want to do it right.”
“I like that attitude,” my boss responded, and they discussed the grocery business while I rang up at least forty cans, six loaves of bread, and a bushel of apples.
“I think you will need help with this,” Martha noted when he was sticking his credit card into the reader. “Sissy, why don’t you lend him a hand? I have to change the tape in your register so it will be out of commission for a while. I’ll use the other one for the customers.”
My register did not need a new roll of paper for the receipts and the other one hadn’t worked for at least ten years, and we both knew those things. “Ok,” I said, nodding. “Thank you, Martha.”
Most of the crowd outside had cleared away, leaving their nose prints behind them. Bowie took almost all the bags, leaving me with one for each hand, and then gestured with his chin. “I parked behind the store,” he said. “My truck was too big for the spots in the front.”
His truck was about as large as the cottage I shared with my dad. “Why’d you decide to shop at the NGS today?” I swung the bags, which were very light. Despite his thoughts on weight distribution, these were only filled with hot dog buns and rat-free chips.
“Well, I guess you could see that I was hungry.” He let down the tailgate and started to load the bed. “I also wasn’t sure how to get in touch with you,” he said. “I have your number from before, when you sent me your address, but I didn’t think you’d appreciate me texting, not after everything you said about the cheerleaders getting in trouble because of us dumb football players.”
“You’re not dumb.” And yes, I had been wondering about him a whole lot, but I wouldn’t have liked him to text. Ward might have seen…
“And the last time I showed up at your house, it didn’t go so well.”
I remembered that and felt a flame of embarrassment at what had happened, how I’d shared my worries about my dad and how Bowie had hurriedly left. “I know. I’m sorry about that.”
He stopped arranging the bags. “You’re sorry? Why?”
I shrugged, not able to explain it. It was hard to have secrets in a town the size of ours, so almost everyone knew about my dad’s drinking problem. They didn’t know about the last accident and everything else, though. I’d spent most of my life hiding one thing or another, and then this guy, this near-stranger, had witnessed part of what was meant to stay hidden.
“I meant that it didn’t go well because I scared the bejesus out of you and interrupted your time alone,” he said. “I’ve been looking for you it but I haven’t seen any of the Wonderwomen around.”
“No, we’re out at the football practice facility now,” I said. “Our locker room at Woodsmen Stadium is still a wreck. Coach Sam threw a fit and said we needed a place to change besides the bathroom so the team sent us out there. But now, we have to use the Junior Woodsmen side of that building, their locker room and showers.” The Junior Woodsmen were the development league team, a lower level of competition but still professional football. It had shocked me that their accommodations at the practice facility were even worse than ours at Woodsmen Stadium. “It’s ok that right now, the water isn’t that warm and the HVAC has problems, but I think we’re going to be unhappy this winter if the Wonderwomen locker room doesn’t get fixed.”
“I can’t believe that they have you ladies driving all the way out there. You know that the Woodsmen use the other part of that facility when we’re not in-season. Why don’t they let y’all use that area, too? When we’re out there, we have plenty of hot water.”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I bet the Junior Woodsmen wish they could have the good stuff that you guys get. They play when it’s really cold here, all through the winter.”
“I’ve never been to their games. I’m in Arizona by then.”
He would be leaving, I remembered. He had another life for half a year. I thought about that, imagining his existence on the other side of the country. I pictured everything upside down, with Bowie walking on his hands.
When I brought my attention back to the present, he was talking about getting milkshakes at a little restaurant near the practice facility. “I would recommend that place. Jory Morin brought me there.” He sighed, reminiscing.
“You really are hungry.”
Now he laughed. “I really am. Can you come by later and help me eat some of these groceries? How about on your way home from your practice?”
“Sure, I could do that,” I said, without even thinking about it. I had forgotten how much I liked being around Bowie, how easy it was to smile and how he didn’t make me worried at all. It was relaxing. It was only after he smiled back and said he’d see me soon, and then drove away with his arm out of the pickup’s window to wave goodbye, that I realized that it was a bad idea. Very bad.
I thought about it more, all through the rest of my shift at the NGS, all the time we rehearsed on the Junior Woodsmen practice field (where we were indoors, yes, but the air conditioning had either broken or they didn’t have any, so it was horribly hot.)
That put everyone, and especially Coach Sam, in a very bad mood. He had us run one eight-count of one routine over and over, and even then he wasn’t satisfied, so we had to run it again. Then again. The whole time, Rylah talked to us about following our dreams, unless they were dumb, and a lot about “asperitas.”
“That’s a type of cloud formation,” Chanel explained wearily as we trudged to our cars. “Sometimes I wish Rylah would shut up.”
I agreed with that statement and I felt just as tired as Chanel looked. Sam had been really critical of my tumbling today, too. He’d said that he could do it better himself, even with his back and knees so bent and sore from his years of gymnastics that some days he had trouble walking.
