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I packed my bags and grieved my dreams. They died that day in so many ways.
From those ashes, something else rose.
I hop in my car and head toward the grocery store because I haven’t been shopping in too long and I know sad cabinets and an empty fridge will be greeting me at home if I don’t make the stop. I both love and hate grocery shopping. I like wandering the aisles and planning meals, but knowing I’m only shopping for myself makes loneliness creep in.
It’s one of the reasons I do a lot of meal prep stuff so I can make larger batches than single serving meals. Is it any better? I don’t know, it’s not like meal prep makes someone magically appear to share my meals with or anything.
Leaving my career behind means I am no longer worried about every calorie I put into my body like I used to be. I’m more than willing to admit it’s a welcome change. I even have ice cream in my freezer now, and I bake things, when I never did before.
I guess there are some good tradeoffs here.
And, of course, not having to worry about being molested by someone in the name of getting a job.
I climb out of my car and head into the grocery store, already annoyed at myself for not making a list between classes today. I’m always a little bit of a mood shopper and not having a list makes it so much worse. I’m likely to go off the rails and start getting things I’ll never eat or things that just look good when I don’t have a plan for them.
Oh well, worse things have happened.
Since I want to go through the cold stuff, meat, and produce last, I start roaming up and down the aisles. Even when I have a list, I walk every aisle. It’s a whole thing. What if I miss something or get an idea for a new recipe because I walked down a certain aisle?
It’s not like I’m in a rush to get home to anyone. No one is timing me or expecting me. I don’t even have a pet.
Maybe I should get a cat. I’ve always been more of a dog person, but I’m gone most of the day every day. That probably wouldn’t be fair to a dog.
“Aster,” a man’s familiar voice pulls me from my thoughts, and I look up to find Bowen studying me intently. Something about the way he’s looking at me makes me think he’s called my name more than once. “Ahh. There are those beautiful eyes, little Spark.”
I huff at his nickname for me, going for indignant, even though I really do love it. It makes me feel all warm and melty inside. Which is dangerous. He grins at me and one of his dimples pops out. Yup, totally fucking dangerous.
“Hi Bowen,” my voice is hesitant as hell, and I stand a little taller since I don’t sound tall at all. “What are you doing here?”
“Just grocery shopping,” he looks into my cart pointedly, “same as you it seems.” I nod, unsure of what to say or do, but he doesn’t seem to have the same problem. He takes a step closer, and I lock my knees to stop myself from stepping back. “You were a million miles away just now. What were you thinking about?”
“I was considering if I should get a cat even though I’m more of a dog kinda girl, but I’m away from home too long at the studio for a dog,” I blurt out the full, unfiltered truth.
Bowen throws his head back and laughs. Even though I desperately want to cringe or, at least, melt into the ground and disappear for oversharing, I can admit his laugh is nothing short of superb. It’s a full sound that causes you to almost feel his joy wrap around you.
I find myself smiling at him even though I should be scowling. He’s laughing at me, after all. I just can’t bring myself to do it.
And that, more than anything else, is proof Bowen is trouble. Big time trouble.
“You’re adorable,” he whispers when he’s gotten his laughter under control.
I scrunch up my nose because I’m not sure how I feel about being called adorable by a man so much younger than me. He’s already taller than my 5’7”, which always put me on the taller side of the ballerinas I was up against and the source of why I was always careful about my weight and diet. I didn’t need anything else working against me in an audition.
Bowen’s movements are slow as he steps closer and raises his hand. I’m kind of surprised when I don’t flinch as he tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear which has fallen loose of the messy bun on the top of my head. I suppose it’s because he’s treating me like I could be spooked easily.
He’s not fucking wrong but being coddled, like he’s doing, usually pisses me off. With him it’s comforting.
And not something I can process now.
“Can I walk with you while you’re shopping?” The sweet hesitancy in his question is what makes it impossible to say no.
“Sure,” the word slides easily from my tongue.
As we start walking, he asks me about my day, the ages of classes I teach and which ones I enjoy the most. When I tell him it’s the little ones, he gets a soft look on his face. Which, again, is something to examine another time.
The conversation flows easily, and I even manage to ask him about his job and his day. I’ve never been one for small talk, probably because I grew up with so much of my focus on dance. Most of the people I spent time with spoke the same language I did—movement, choreography, and fluidity.
Taylor never cared if we didn’t talk constantly when we were around each other. She didn’t seem put off or offended when I didn’t ask her for details about her life, or who she was spending time with. I figured it was because she liked having a respite from gossip. I could give her that.
