Harrispon
Iknew I was in trouble the second he walked into the store. Not because he does anything. Not because he says anything. But because he looks like he doesn’t belong there.
And I don’t mean that in a bad way.
I mean, he looks like someone who hasn’t figured out where he fits yet. Like he’s trying to. Like he’s searching. People like that stand out in a place like Hampstead.
Most people here are settled. Rooted. They know exactly who they are and where they’re going. They’ve built their lives in neat, predictable lines.
Scott doesn’t look like that.
He looks like someone standing at the edge of something. And I can’t look away.
I notice him before he notices me.
He walks in slowly, like he’s taking everything in. His eyes scan the store like he’s memorizing it, as though he needs to understand the space before he lets himself exist in it.
I’ve seen that before. New people usually come in loud or curious. But Scott comes in careful. That tells me more than anything else could.
I turn my back when he comes down the aisle. Not because I don’t want to look at him.
Because I do.
Too much.
And I need a second to figure out why.
I tell myself it’s nothing. That he’s just another customer. A guy passing through town, and that’s all it’ll ever be.
Until I turn around and he’s looking at me. Not in a way that makes me uncomfortable or feels invasive.
Just there.
Present.
Like he’s been caught in the middle of something he doesn’t know how to explain.
That’s when I know.
Not what it is. But that it’s something.
“Hey. How’s it going?” I ask because that’s what you say when you don’t want to make a moment into something bigger than it is.
“Good,” he says back, like he’s trying to remember how to be a person.
I almost smile.
He tries to play it off. Tries to act like he isn’t thrown. But I can see it in the way his shoulders hold tension and the way his eyes flick away, then back again.
“How about you?” he asks.
I huff out a quiet breath, shifting my weight against the step stool while a faint smile pulls at my mouth. “No use complaining. No one would listen anyway.”
It’s half a joke. Mostly. But there’s enough truth in it that I don’t usually expect anyone to answer.
“I would.”
The words come out soft, like he doesn’t think about them before he says them.
And that catches me off guard.
I go still for half a second, something shifting in my chest before I can stop it, before I can decide what to do with it.
I look at him again. Really look this time.
He doesn’t even seem to realize what he’s said. There’s a flicker of something on his face, like he might take it back if he could, like he’s already bracing for it to land wrong.
But it doesn’t.
It lands exactly where it shouldn’t.
Somewhere deeper than a passing comment has any right to reach.
I don’t call attention to it. Just nod like it’s nothing, like I didn’t feel that small, unexpected pull.
“Need help finding something?” I ask, because it’s safer. Because it gives him an out.
He shakes his head a little too quickly. “No, I’m just looking.”
I almost smile again.
“Alright,” I say. “Let me know if you change your mind.”
I step down from the stool and move farther down the aisle, giving him space, letting the moment end the way moments like this are supposed to.
That should’ve been it. It usually is. People come in, ask a question, make small talk, then disappear back into their lives without leaving anything behind.
I round the corner at the end of the aisle, out of his direct line of sight, but I don’t go far.
I grab a box I don’t need from the shelf more out of habit than anything else and shift just enough to look back.
He’s still there. Standing exactly where I left him. Not moving.
Something in my chest shifts again because people don’t usually stay. They don’t usually look like something just happened, and they’re not sure what to do with it.
I should turn back to what I was doing. Should let it go.
But instead, I watch him for a second longer than necessary.
Long enough to see him finally shake it off and reach for his cart like he’s trying to get back to whatever he came here for.
I hurry away before he can catch me looking. But the feeling doesn’t go with it.
That quiet pull. That sense that something small shifted.
That this, whatever it is, isn’t quite over yet.
I tell myself it is anyway because that’s how this works.
People come in, we talk, they leave. Moments don’t turn into anything unless you let them.
So I go back to work.
And then he shows up at my register.
I notice him before he reaches the front of the line, but I don’t look directly at him right away. Instead, I stay focused on what I’m doing, falling into the rhythm of it, grabbing bags and packing items.
Miss Margaret is making lasagna. Of course she is.
I jump in just enough to tease her, keeping it light, letting her laugh while I stack her groceries the way she likes them, heavier items at the bottom, delicate ones on top.
It’s automatic. All of it.
But my attention isn’t where it should be.
It keeps drifting back to him standing in line behind her, watching. Not in a way that’s uncomfortable. In a way that feels curious, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
I glance up once, just quick enough to catch him before he can look away, and there it is again, that nervous energy he’s trying to hide.
I look back down before it turns into something more and finish bagging Margaret’s groceries, setting the last bag in her cart before stepping back while she pays.
And then it’s his turn.
He steps forward and places his items on the belt, and this time, I don’t pretend not to notice him.
The cashier greets him and starts scanning groceries while I reach for the first item coming down the belt, bagging automatically without missing a beat.
But I’m paying attention now.
To him.
To the way he stands a little too still. The way his eyes keep drifting toward me before flicking away again.
I keep my voice easy when I speak.
“So,” I say, glancing up at him while I slide a carton of milk into a bag, “are you new in town or just passing through?”
He looks caught off guard by the question.
“I just moved here,” he says.
I nod like that makes sense, like I didn’t already guess. “Nice. What brought you to Hampstead?”
He shrugs slightly. “Just looking for a change, I guess.”
There’s more behind that.
I can feel it.
But I don’t push.
I keep bagging, steady and controlled, even though my focus isn’t entirely on the groceries anymore. The way he watches my hands doesn’t go unnoticed. Neither does the way he looks like he wants to say something, and keeps stopping himself.
When he pulls out his wallet, I catch him looking at me again, and this time I let it happen.
“Do you need help getting these out to your car?” I ask, lifting one of the bags.
It’s routine. But this time, it doesn’t feel like it.
“I… uh, sure,” he says.
I grin before I can stop myself.
He’s still nervous. Still trying to find his footing.
I like that.
More than I should.