AllFreeNovel
Share Us
PresentDay
I finished the last of the milk from Claire and Rufus’ fridge with my cereal at breakfast. I’ve not paid for any of the groceries Maggie or I have eaten in the last two months, and Claire rebuffs my every offer to chip in on groceries. So, I’m taking it upon myself to find Alexandria’s grocery store and shop. She can’t tell me ‘no’ if I bring the food to her.
The town’s Walmart isn’t large. It might as well be a family grocer compared to the superstores I frequented in California. I meander from aisle to aisle for the products on my small list, confused by the store’s layout. It strikes me as archaic that with all of society’s technological advancements, there’s still not a universal grocery store layout. If I can order my oat milk and have it delivered to my home, it’s not too much to ask to know where the same product is anytime I want to buy it in-store.
The yogurt selections—all three available flavors—being housed next to refrigerated jugs of sweet tea bewilders me. The next aisle offers bread, crackers, and other boxed snacks. Mental math helps me determine which brand of cookies works out to be the cheapest per ounce, and I toss my selection in the cart. Strolling into the next aisle, an exasperated voice carries across the store causing me to arch an eyebrow.
“No. I said two toys. There’s five in this cart.”
Ah–a struggle I know well. I’ve always wanted to be afundad and, in pursuit of that, I spoil my daughter from time to time. Since her mom passed I’ve grown even more lax, and she gets away with a lot these days. It’s hard reigning in all the ‘I want’ and ‘I need’ statements when my head’s full of worry about how much Maggie must miss her mom.
“I want that one. This one goes with it! I need both,” a child’s voice whines.
“Rae, I understand. We talked about this before we came inside. Two toys. That’s it.”
Walmart strategically placed the toy aisle across from the bread aisle, making it the perfect spot to ensure kids lose their minds over the toys they’re dying to have, while parents struggle to make a game-time decision about what they’re feeding the family tonight. One point to Walmart.
A brunette kneels at eye-level with a blonde, curly-haired girl. Six months later, the sight of a mother and daughter together still pains me. The sight knocks the breath out of my lungs and weakens my knees, so I turn away. Fully expecting to become known as the local crazy, I violently shake my head in the middle of the grocery store, working to expel thewhat-ifsfrom my mind.
When I’m able to fill my lungs again, I search for the last item on my list—laundry detergent. The store’s yogurt selection is limited, but there are more laundry detergent choices on the shelves than I’ve ever seen. Blue bottles blur together as I scan the containers. Shuffling through my memory, I focus on recalling the brand my aunt uses. My mind remains blank, and I rub my hands over my face in frustration.
“I love you. But you’ve got one minute to pick out two of these toys and put the others back. If you can’t, we’re going to leave with no toys.”
I steal a peek back down the toy aisle and witness The Brunette reach over and stroke her daughter’s cheek. She pushes the wild bangs out of the girl’s eyes and smoothes the top of her hair down before standing to watch the child put three toys back on the shelves.
I face the towering shelf of laundry detergent again. Maybe if I stare long enough, the right product will choose me and jump into my cart.
“Excuse me.” A female voice comes from behind.
I unintentionally abandoned my cart in the middle of the aisle, my indecision ensuring no other customers can maneuver around it. My cheeks warm, and I jerk the cart to my side of the aisle and look up to apologize.
“No big deal,” The Brunette says and continues on her way.
My gaze lingers as she moves ahead and stops in front of a dish soap display. She’s undeniably attractive and, up close, reminds me of a young Demi Moore circa St. Elmo’s Fire. Striking chartreuse eyes and a smattering of freckles splashed across her nose stole my attention during our seconds-long interaction. A grin splays across my lips, and I chastise myself to focus and pick a bottle of detergent. This isn’t rocket science.
The Brunette pushes her cart further away from me, plucks a bottle of dish soap from the shelf, and tosses it on top of her overflowing cart. Her daughter has been moving the rainbow assortment of soap bottles around, but her mom takes her hand and ends the impromptu playtime. A loud squeak shrills from her cart as she exits the aisle. Seconds later, another squeak alerts me she’s back. The rickety cart wheel quietens, and I sense someone is near me.
“Not to be nosey, but do you need help?”
I jump, even though I knew she couldn’t be far, because I didn’t expect her to bethisclose. I assumed she’d forgotten an item—not that she walked back to assist me. I peer over my shoulder and I’m met again with the most bright, distinctive eyes I’ve ever been privileged to see.
“Maybe?” The word trips out in a stammer. “I’m picking up things for my aunt, but I can’t remember the laundry detergent she uses. I think it comes in a light blue bottle.”
“You’re in luck,” she says, laughing. “That eliminates three of your two dozen choices.”
She’s right. I return her laugh and add, “It smells like oranges?” There’s an unexpected quiver in my voice.
She steps closer, pulls a small bottle off the shelf, and carefully unscrews the lid. Offering me the bottle, she asks, “Does it smell like this?” I sniff cautiously, but I’m in luck—she hit the nail on the head.
“This is it! How’d you know?” I cock my head, working to unveil my mysterious laundry detergent savior.
“It’s the same one I use. The orange scent’s unique. I’m sure they have some kind of scent trademark on that kind of thing, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know, but thank you. I can’t find anything in this store.”
“No one can. They’re always moving stuff around. It’s frustrating,” she says, taking control of her shopping cart and wishing me a good day before disappearing. She’s gone before I can even introduce myself.
“Thanks again,” I call after her.
