Chapter 8
CHAPTER
EIGHT
MIRANDA
I’ve been in this truck many times, but this time feels decidedly different.
A new and foreign sensation fills my veins, making my heart beat a fraction of a second faster.
The destination is a very unfamiliar one, and my entire being is blaringly aware of that.
I’m on my way to move in with a boy… for the first time in my life.
A part of me suggests it shouldn’t be any different from living with another friend, like Anna.
Yet the realistic section of my brain knows it’s very different. It just is.
“We’ll swing by the store first,” he says, tapping the wheel. “I want to pick up some groceries. The kitchen needs to be stocked with all your favorites. I don’t want to be away at a game and have you starving at home because there’s nothing to eat.”
“That would never happen.” I stare out the window with a huge grin on my face. “There is such a thing as grocery delivery services and takeout. The last thing you need to worry about is me starving.”
“Well, what if you get an overwhelming craving for a banana in the middle of the night and there are no delivery drivers available to bring you one?”
I shake my head, releasing a chuckle. “Why on earth would I crave a banana in the middle of the night? No one in the history of the earth has perished from a late-night banana craving. Now, an ice cream sundae… maybe.”
He lifts his shoulders. “I don’t know. I was thinking of something most people like, and bananas came to mind.”
“Yeah, I guess they are a safe-ish bet, but honestly, they’re only good for two days. Chances are the delivery person would deliver one that isn’t okay to eat and then—if I really were dying for a banana—I would suffer regardless.”
“What do you mean they’re only good for two days?”
“They have a very short window. They can’t be eaten when they have any green on them or are too light yellow, or they’re unripe and taste chalky.
If they start developing brown spots, they’re too squishy, and it’s just not a pleasant eating experience.
” I scrunch my nose with a grimace. “They’re only good for the two days between when they’re perfectly yellow. ”
“Without any green or brown?”
“Exactly.”
“That is the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.” Miles chuckles. “It makes no sense. The more brown spots they get, the sweeter they are.”
“I can’t. It’s a texture thing.”
“Okay, fine. We’ll get ice cream sundae supplies for all midnight emergencies.”
“I mean… I’m not going to say no to that, but I’m still right about the delivery options. Nothing is off-limits with all the convenience services we have now.”
The corners of his mouth tilt up into a grin as he pulls into the grocery store parking lot. “I don’t know, Sunshine. That must be a Cali thing. I would never submit a grocery store run in the middle of the night.”
I unbuckle my seat belt and step down onto the pavement. Closing the door behind me, I meet Miles on the other side of the truck. “It’s not a Cali thing. It’s a modern-day thing. Welcome to this century, my guy.” I loop my arm through his.
We make our way across the chilly parking lot and into the warmth of the store.
Miles pulls a cart from the long line of them, and we start toward the produce section. “I’d venture to say that getting one’s driver’s license is a this century type of thing,” he teases. “Oh, look…” He snatches up a bunch of bananas. “These are…?”
“Too green. However, they’ll be yellow in a few days. So that’s actually how you want to buy them. Otherwise, they’ll be overripe before you can get to them.”
“Unless I wanted to eat them today.”
I shake my head. “Nope. Not possible.” I grab the bananas from him and put them in the cart. “It’s just banana law.”
Going back to his comment, I say, “And I told you. I’ve never needed a driver’s license. Anna has always had a car service. If I’m ever by myself, it’s usually away from home, so I just grab an Uber. Owning a car would’ve been a waste, making a license unnecessary.”
“Well, I think you should get one. That way, when I’m traveling, you can use my truck if you need something, and God forbid, a driving service isn’t available.”
“I mean, I can if it will make you feel better.” I place a carton of strawberries into the cart. “I don’t even know where to start.”
“I’ll help you.” Miles’s face lights up. “It’ll be fun. We can practice driving, and I’ll help you study for the test. It’s not hard. I promise.”
“I suppose it’s time for me to learn.”
“Uh, absolutely. Awesome.” Miles bobs his chin. “This is going to be fun. Now, what else should we pick up?”
“I haven’t planned out any meals. I have no idea.”
He nudges my side. “I realize you haven’t made a list.”
“You know I love my lists.”
“Yes, and we’ll come back for meal ingredients. But what kinds of basics do you like to keep stocked for snacks, breakfast, lunch… that type of thing?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I’m pretty low maintenance.”
He cuts me a side glance. “Says the girl who only gives bananas a two-day window.”
“Hey.” I turn and point my finger toward him. “My points are valid. And whatever you normally get is fine. I’ll eat anything.” Miles furrows his brows and opens his mouth to speak. I cut him off. “Okay, most things.” I laugh.
“If you leave it up to me, we’re going to end up with six boxes of toaster pastries.”
“That is not true. I’ve been out to eat with you dozens of times. You are not a toaster pastry kind of guy.”
“Okay, we have to make this quick, or we’re going to miss the movie. We’ll hurry down every aisle in this place, and each of us is required to pick up two items from each aisle. Got it? We’ll meal plan another day and come back later.”
I bounce up on my toes. “Oh, it can be like those supermarket game shows where we race down the aisles and throw things into the cart.”
“What’s the objective of the game shows? Do they have a list, or are they trying to hit a specific threshold or something?”
“I’m not sure,” I say. “I usually watch them on mute while I’m working. It’s just fun to see them race around the store all crazy.”
Miles laughs. “Okay, we’ll go as fast as we can without running into anyone. Grab two things each from every aisle and race to check out. That’s the objective.”
“Deal.” I nod.
“Ready. Set. Go.”
Cognizant of those around us, we unfortunately can’t run, but we do a good job of speed walking through the place, each tossing items into the cart as we hurry down each aisle. Mere minutes later, we’re in line to check out. A little winded, we laugh, catching our breath.
“That is the only way to grocery shop,” Miles says through a chuckle.
“Agreed.” I start placing the items on the belt for checkout.
He snatches a small container from the cart. “What the hell is this, Miranda?” Amusement lines his features. “You gonna snack on dried tarragon?”
I grab the small spice bottle from him and put it on the belt for checkout. “It was the baking aisle. I was rushed. There wasn’t much to choose from.”
“What was your second item?” He looks into the cart and pulls out a bottle of grapeseed oil. “Seriously?” He holds the bottle of oil out in front of me. “I can’t wait to see what you’re going to make with grapeseed oil and tarragon.”
I place my hands on my hips. “What did you pick up from the baking aisle?”
He tosses a box of chocolate pudding mix and a bag of almonds onto the belt. “Oh, I don’t know. Two things that make delicious snacks. Nuts and pudding.”
“I was pressured for time,” I say as an excuse, pouting my lips.
“You would not hold up in the grocery store show. I don’t know what the rules are, but I’m pretty sure they’re not ‘pick up random crap you’ll never use.’”
“You don’t know that. Very well could be. They do have quite an assortment of weird stuff in their cart when they’re done. And I will use them. You’ll see.”
Note to self: look up recipes containing tarragon and grapeseed oil.
We check out and carry our bags of snacks—some more edible than others—to the truck, still laughing at the experience.
“We should always shop like that,” Miles states, putting the bags into the back seat.
“It might be hard if we actually follow recipes and eat good food.”
“Oh, unlike bottles of random spices?” He quirks a brow and climbs into the driver’s seat.
I shoot him a mock glare. “I’m going to make something incredible with that tarragon. Just you wait.”
We chat all the way to the house, and my heart is happy.
We haven’t even arrived at Miles’s place yet, and I already know that this arrangement will be better for me.
If I were still back in the hotel, I’d have the Game Show Network muted on the TV while I went through social media posts referencing Anna.
I’m damn good at my job, and I’m proud of the benefits I bring to Anna’s career, but if I’m honest with myself, perhaps I do a little too much.
Maybe, just maybe, I focus so much on her and my job as her publicist/assistant in an effort to avoid my own life.
It only takes two trips from the truck to the house to bring in all the food and my suitcases. Arms full of bags, I plop a load of our goods onto the counter. I pull out the carton of strawberries and open the refrigerator to put them away.
“You are kidding me!” I shriek through a laugh.
The refrigerator looks brand new, save for a bottle of Sriracha, ketchup, and mustard, and a handful of Taco Bell hot sauces. I quickly close the refrigerator door and hurry to the pantry. Opening the door, I’m met with three containers of protein powder and empty shelves.
Miles hurries into the kitchen. “What is it?”
I march over to the refrigerator, open the door, grab the five packets of hot sauce, and toss them at him. “Admit it!” I say through a fit of laughter.
“Admit what?” Miles feigns innocence.
“You know what. It must be a Cali thing,” I say the last sentence in a mocking tone.
Miles presses his lips together, struggling to contain a laugh. “Fine. I use delivery services for a lot of my meals, too.”
“A lot of them? I’d say all of them, given the contents of your kitchen. Where are all your snacks, Miles? What if you have late-night cravings? You gonna suck down some mustard?” I giggle.
“Hey, I’m just looking out for you. Just because I don’t follow my own advice doesn’t mean I’m not right.”
I raise a brow. “Have you ever made a box of pudding for a snack in your life?”
“Probably when I was young, maybe. Or at least my mom did.”
“Exactly, which means that my bottle of dried tarragon is going to be just as useful as your box of pudding.”
“Pfft,” Miles protests. “I’m making that pudding. You’ll see.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I still think I won our little grocery shopping game.” He shrugs.
“It wasn’t a competition.”
He pins me with a stare. “Everything is a competition. And, look, I have good taste in food, which is why I order it on most days. I’m busy. I don’t have time to cook.”
I wave my hand in front of me toward the empty pantry. “I see that. I just found our mandatory outing, so ‘I don’t starve’”—I raise my fingers in air quotes—“a little hilarious given the state of your kitchen. That’s all.”
In several long strides, he’s in front of the counter where he pulls out a box of cheese crackers. “Well, don’t worry because now we have food.”
I stare at the box of crackers. “But we’re still ordering in for dinner?” I cross my arms across my chest.
“Of course.” He grins. “Now, let’s get this stuff put away so we aren’t late for the movie.”
“Sounds like a plan.”