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“Okay, well, while you work on that, I’m gonna grab some stuff.”
I’m not sure he heard me, which is for the best as I wander away.
I try to appear aimless on my way through the aisles, but my hidden sights are clearly set on the reproductive health section toward the back of the store. For a second, I worry Chad might follow me to get supplies for himself, then decide his mint situation should take a while to sort out. Plus… I mean… Let’s be honest…
I peek back and see the top of his blond head still motionless as it decides between eleven of the same thing. I should be good.
I have no idea if I’ll need condoms anytime soon, but I have every intention of being prepared should the opportunity arise. In some ways, I’m glad Larinda’s entourage was there to crash the party last night because I wasn’t exactly stocked for the occasion. Forgive me for not assuming I’d be having clandestine forbidden sex with my longtime celebrity crush on her bus while I was packing for the tour.
After grabbing what I need, I pick up a few other things, then check on my friend again. He’s now making his way toward the register with an armload of what must be all the mints. Well, that’s one solution.
“Go ahead,” I say, waving him in front of me.
“Of course not! You were here first. I insist.”
“Really, it’s fine. You’ve got your hands full.”
He gives me a hard look. “That’s not how the code works, Mr. Andrews.”
The code. Right. Good to know The Code has provisions for convenience store checkout scenarios.
There’s now another person behind Chad, another on the way, and a very irritated associate behind the register.
“Dude, just go,” the guy says, motioning for my items.
Crap.
I drop everything on the counter and try to hide the condoms from Chad’s view as much as possible. I’d rather my grandma watch me buy these than the genius behind the Mer-Kin.
My fingers tap nervously on my thigh as I sneak glances at his eyes to judge his attention. Maybe he saw them? No. I’m just paranoid.
“You okay, buddy?” the employee asks me.
“What? Yeah.”
When he casts a warning look at the security camera to his right, I clench my fist and force myself to calm.
“That’s forty-six ninety-three,” he says.
I manage a tight smile as I tap my credit card on the reader and take the bag he hands me.
“Need the receipt?”
“Nah, it’s fine.”
“You should take the receipt,” Chad says. “This is tax deductible.”
Is it? As if I’d list “condoms” under itemized deductions even if it was.
“I’m good,” I say, stepping away before this gets worse.
The clerk still watches me with a wary expression as he rings up Chad’s purchases. You know you’ve screwed up when you’ve raised more red flags than the guy clearing your shelves of the same wintergreen mint.
Chad pays, gets his precious receipt, and follows me into the sunshine. We’re two steps down the sidewalk when his phone rings.
“Oh shit! It’s my pre-girlfriend. You mind?” He shoves his bags at me. “Careful with those. They’re for Jarvis.”
That fact makes me want to wrinkle all the bags and smear every serving size number so he has no idea how many mints make up 20 calories, but it’s Chad who would pay the price, so I suppress the urge.
