Chapter 18 #2
“We promised Pops we would be over in time for dinner tonight, so we’ve got to get going,” Clara is telling Madison. “But text me if you need help with anything tomorrow.”
“Who’s Pops?” I ask, suddenly wanting to be included in the conversation.
“He’s like the town grandfather figure,” Madison says. “A very cantankerous grandfather.”
Clark snorts. “Probably why you two get along so well,” he says to Madison. I find myself bristling at his insinuation about Madison, but she responds with a wry smile.
“That makes three of us,” she says, punching Clark’s arm. “Tell the old man ‘hi’ from me.”
After Madison walks them to the door, she returns and claps her hands. “First things first—we need to teach Devil Cat to stay away from my room.”
Rolling my eyes, I chide her. “You’re so dramatic.
” I walk to the primary bedroom, where I’d closed Hamlet in while Madison’s few belongings were moved in by Clark and Clara.
Opening the door, I find Hamlet waiting to be let out.
I moved in this morning, so he hasn’t had enough time to do a thorough inspection of the new space yet.
He immediately wanders off to continue sniffing everything in sight, but I call for him to follow me.
I walk to the doorway of Madison’s room but stop Hamlet when he tries to walk in.
“No,” I tell him firmly. He looks up at me and meows loudly in protest. “No,” I repeat as I gently redirect his body away from Madison’s room.
He meows again and tries to turn back toward the room.
“Hamlet,” I say in my firmest disapproving parent voice.
He knows that tone. After one final disgruntled meow, he turns away, resuming his investigation of the living room.
“That’s it?” Madison asks. “That’s all there is to it?”
Nodding, I hold my hands up in a shrug. “When he was a kitten, I would squirt him with a spray bottle of water to teach him what was off limits. But now, he comprehends the tone of my voice. So that’s all there is to it.”
I can’t tell if Madison looks impressed or disbelieving when she asks, “How do we know he won’t sneak in to claw me in my sleep?”
“Well, for one, you could sleep with your door closed,” I say, a smirk on my lips. She huffs. “For two, Hamlet always sleeps on the pillow above my head. He won’t bother you at night.”
“Interesting,” Madison says. “With all your rules about him not getting on the counters or tables, I’m surprised you let him sleep in bed with you.”
I simply shrug. “I don’t want him crawling around where I’m going to prep and eat food. But sleep is different, somehow. I like knowing he’s close by when I’m asleep.”
Madison’s looking at me with a curious expression, and I wish I could delete my last comment. I decide to redirect before she asks any personal questions. “Why don’t we go to the grocery store to stock up on food for the week?” I suggest.
Ten minutes later, we’re walking the aisles of Noland’s Grocery, the only store in town.
It’s busier than the other times I’ve been here, which makes sense considering more tourists have started flocking to the town for river float trips.
The water would still be too cold for my preference, but to each his own.
“Did you make a list of what you’ll need for whatever recipes you’re making this week? We can divide and conquer if you give me half the list,” I tell Madison as I push the grocery cart next to her.
“That’s not how I roll as a cook,” she responds. “I take a more minimalistic approach to cooking.”
“Why am I not surprised?” I muse under my breath, earning a glare from Madison. “Please, do explain.”
“I don’t cook from recipes—I simply keep a supply of basic seasonings and sauces on hand.
Then I pick a protein, vegetable, and carb to mix together in some combination.
Almost anything can taste good in a tortilla, over rice, or mixed with noodles.
Less waste that way since you’re not buying some obscure ingredient to use one time. ”
I have to hand it to her—it is a practical approach to cooking. And the stir-fry she made the one night I joined her for dinner tasted great. I guess she’s on to something.
“Now that we have a regular-sized fridge and freezer, we can actually stock up enough to not have to make grocery trips every few days,” Madison says as she tosses ground turkey into the cart. Her use of the term “we” sends a warm buzz through my veins, but I shake it off as I follow her.
“How do you feel about tofu?” Madison asks as we approach the fresh produce section.
“I’m fine with it,” I say. “One of my favorite dishes my grandma used to make was a pan-fried tofu.” I kick myself for offering up the information as I see Madison’s eyes flare with interest.
She quickly reins in her expression, though, before nonchalantly asking, “Oh? When’s the last time you had it?” She busies herself adding two packages of tofu to the cart instead of making eye contact.
Giving in, I say, “I haven’t seen my grandparents for about three years. It’s harder for them to travel so far now, but I can’t really break away from work long enough to make a trip to London worthwhile.”
Madison peruses the lettuce options as she says, “Not being able to see them must be tough. Will you see your parents and sister while you’re in Arkansas, at least?” She’s forced a casual tone of voice that does nothing to hide her intense interest in my answer.
Fighting a smile, I shake my head. “I see what you’re doing, and I’m not biting.”
She drops the carefree pretense and pins me with a stare. “You’re no fun. Why don’t I get to uncover the mystery of Liam Park’s family and childhood?”
“It’s not like you’ve told me anything about your family or childhood,” I counter. “Aside from never wanting to go back to live at the Nebraska farm, you’ve said nothing about your upbringing. I don’t even know if you have siblings.”
She huffs as she adds a bag of romaine hearts to the cart, along with carrots and bell peppers.
“I have an older sister and a younger brother. My sister lives in Omaha with her husband and daughter, and my brother lives on the farm with his wife. They have a separate farmhouse from my parents, but they’ll swap houses someday when my dad decides to retire and my brother takes over the farm.
” She glances up at me, placing a hand on her hip. “There. My family history.”
I snort a laugh. “I hardly call that a ‘family history.’ More like a recitation of the members of your family tree.” She rolls her eyes as she turns away to lead us down an aisle of dry goods. I ask, “Why don’t you want to go back to the farm?”
She chews her lip and doesn’t respond as she reaches for a bag of jasmine rice. “Why didn’t you like growing up in a small town?” she asks instead of answering.
We face each other there in the aisle, Madison’s hands death-gripping the bag of rice, and mine the bar of the grocery cart. Neither of us says anything.
There’s a war being waged in the limbic system of my brain, opposing emotions fighting against each other. Tell Madison more about myself—deepening our connection into a genuine friendship—or guard anything that could be used against me in the future?
After a long minute of silence, Madison plops the rice into the cart and moves down the aisle to the pasta.
In my core, there's a sinking disappointment over which side of the war won out.