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7
Libby
Ground Turkey and Casual Sex
Sunday morning means groceries. It means following my shopping list exactly, buying six dozen eggs, six cartons of almond milk, enough chicken thighs to kill a… well, a million chickens, and all of the fresh produce old man Jonah can get his hands on.
It means buying one single box of cookies, and pausing in the cookie aisle for longer than necessary because I desperately want five. I have to drag myself away before I sweep the whole shelf into my cart and run away to live my life as a fat girl.
My bodywantsto be chubby. Like it’s in my DNA or something; eat all of the cookies, get perfectly plump, roll my way down the freeway doling out speeding tickets. The universe wants me to be round, so I fight against nature every single day by rationing my sugar and choking down healthy foods. I don’t hate the gym, but I definitely don’t go in the mornings; I need time to work up to that.
Moving into the next aisle and studying cereals, I slow at what I used to call rainbow Cheerios – they were fruit loops, and no one ever corrected me – but I pass those and stop in front of the healthier options. This is a war I fight every single day; make good choices, buy low fat, low carb, low fun, then work out.
I don’t enjoy the process, but – I run a hand over my flat stomach and smile – I sure as hell enjoy the results. I take what I need from the shelf and peek one last time at the ‘rainbow Cheerios,’ then I move along to the fridge section and begin selecting the cuts that’ll get me through until next Sunday. Night shift week means planning and cooking my meals in advance. This is both a blessing and a curse; it makes me bitter, because more often than not, my colleagues buy takeout while on shift, smash it down, and still manage to look as good as they do.
I will always be bitter that men have testosterone pumping through their blood to make staying lean easier.
But it also means I don’t have to think about what to make. I cook something in bulk on Sunday, divide it into six containers, and I’m set for the week. But on my week of day shifts, I get fresher, yummier, possibly healthier. My home smells each night the way it smells on a Sunday. I get to change my mind if I feel like eating something else. And after I eat, I get to sit down with my coveted cookies and try to ration them across the whole week.
They never last beyond Tuesday, which, in my mind, is argument enough to buymoresleeves to see me through, but I control my urges, and if I run out on Tuesday, I miss out until the following week.
I don’t rememberevereating cookies on a Wednesday.
“You should try the ground turkey.” A deep voice over my left shoulder makes me jump and nearly drop the tray of ground beef I’m holding over the fridges. The man from the gym, Theodore Griffin, stands just a foot and a half away, so close he could lean in and touch me if he wanted.
When our eyes meet and his stare into mine and insist I know them, he flashes a wide grin and reaches around me to snag a tray of turkey. “It’s cheaper, tastier, and better for you.”
“Uh…”
“You can make anything you were already gonna make – spaghetti and meatballs, burgers, whatever was on the menu – but use turkey instead. You’ll thank me.”
I close my eyes for a moment to reorient myself. I am an officer of the law, I come from a world of danger and bad people, I work out every single day – Idon’tsay “uh” like a total idiot just because a man stops by in the freezer section of the grocery store.
“No thanks.” I accept the tray, but only so I can toss it back into the fridge. “I don’t like turkey.”
“Wait.” He grabs my shoulder when I try to continue on. “Seriously, it’s good for your heart, and it’s cheaper than the trays of chicken. Aren’t you a cop? Public server and all; you should be living within your means.”
I narrow my eyes, give him my full attention and, reaching into my cart, snag a can of chickpeas. Then a can of kidney beans. “These have more protein than beef or turkey, they’re the best my heart could ask for, and they’re only seventy-nine cents a can. I live within my means, and I’ve got this under control, but thanks.” I toss the cans back in and turn away in an attempt to escape the man whose eyes I can’t stop thinking about, but he keeps up. He’s fast, and reminds me of an eager puppy.
“Slow down, officer. I just wanted to say hey.”
“How do you know I’m police?”
He shrugs, and when I drop a loaf of bread into my cart, he takes it out and replaces it with the plain brand version. When my fiery gaze meets his, he grins. “Less preservatives, and it’s cheaper. Half the price of the other.”
“It also turns into cardboard within two days. I like the other one. It’s soft.”
“It’s soft because of the chemicals they put in during production. They make for soft bread, but wreak havoc on your body. Try this other brand, keep it in your freezer. It’ll last longer and stay soft. And I know you’re a cop, because I asked around.”
I narrow my eyes. “You’re asking around about me?” I stop by the toilet paper section and firm my lips. “Do we know each other?”
He flashes a playful grin. “Sure feels like it, huh? You’re the girl who can’t bench press, and I’m the guy who saved you from certain death.”
“I can bench more than you ever could.” My words come out on a growl, and they’re absolutely not true. I can bench press more than many women, but there’s no way in hell I can lift more than him. His shoulders are twice as broad as mine, his chest is, too. His arms are muscular, even beneath the coat he wears, and his thighs are thick and fill out his blue jeans. “I didn’t need your help at the gym.”
Entirely too happy with himself, he only shrugs and continues walking beside me while I shop. “It was my pleasure to help. No way could I just stand by and wait to see what would happen. Took me two seconds on my way out the door; not a big deal.”
It was a big deal to me.I snatch up a twelve-pack of toilet paper and lift a brow when I know I’m not grabbing the cheapest brand. “The other kind is scratchy. Don’t push your luck.”
