Chapter Fourteen Prue
Fourteen
Prue
The day started with the battle of two hangovers. Me, whose birthday it actually was yesterday, versus my father, who forgets he is not as young as he once was and got a little carried away.
He won. I left him lying on the couch with a cool cloth on his head and a bottle of ibuprofen next to him.
Dad’s being punished in a uniquely torturous way, however.
Mom decided today was the day she needed to search through all of the kitchen cabinets and downstairs closets to find the breadbasket her great aunt had gifted her twenty-odd years ago.
Because, apparently, my great-great aunt Edith is coming over for dinner.
She is not. Edith is, in fact, very dead. And the basket was donated long, long ago.
Still, it’s keeping Mom busy as Dad attempts to rest and I keep the store running.
It’s been a relatively slow morning, with the handful of retired locals who come in to check one item off their daily to-do list, a few geniuses who cannot figure out why the gas pump doesn’t take cash, and two kids who stop in for ten-cent candy accompanied by exhausted yet chic Torontonian parents who’ve spent upward of two hours in the car with them already.
They’re no doubt headed to their luxurious home on the lake that they humbly call the cabin, when it’s the furthest thing from it. I spend the long gaps between them and the next customer designing every room of their lakeside palace with a limitless budget in mind.
When I worked in the store every weekend in high school, this was my favorite part of the job—the people watching that let my imagination run loose.
It all starts with someone new coming in.
I never know upon first glance if they’ll be the right type of person to craft a story around, but I am able to most of the time—especially when bored.
The key to it is improvisation following observation. For example, the middle-aged man who’s taking his sweet time looking at each and every apple might, to some, just be nitpicky. But, to me, he’s a lovesick fool buying time.
Is it possible that he’s just looking to find a perfectly ripe apple with no bruising?
Sure. But, maybe, he’s not really looking at the apples at all.
Perhaps, the apples are just the task for his wandering hands and absent mind to focus on as he plans his opening line for when he reunites with his college sweetheart this afternoon.
Her name is Daniella. She’s recently divorced and has never stopped wondering where James, I’ll call him, ended up.
James still makes her favorite snack, the one she introduced him to when they’d study together in their dormitory lounge—apples dunked in peanut butter and honey.
So, as James holds up another apple to a keen eye, I hear his thoughts aloud. Should he bring her one, as a reminder of their history? Would that be strange? He’d never stopped wondering about her either. He’d never married.
James places two apples in his basket and wanders off to the next aisle.
Meanwhile, I craft him and Daniella a beautiful life in their sunsetting years.
They take their engagement photos outside of their old college dorms. They adopt a golden retriever.
Actually, two. They live a long, bliss-filled, happy life and I’m happy for them. They deserve it.
“Here.” James drops the basket filled with items in front of me without so much as a polite nod. Taking a look inside, I’m disappointed when there’s no peanut butter or honey in sight. Unfortunately, the customers will often ruin the experience.
I cash him out, send him on his way with an unreciprocated smile, and hope that Daniella—if she’s out there—can handle his grumpy attitude.
The good observations, the unpopped bubbles, or the ones untainted by a bad attitude, used to make it into the journal Dad and I shared. I reach under the cash register, pulling open the green leather-bound book that my father and I have written in since my teen years.
The last entry was written two Augusts ago by Dad.
“I have watched her grow for seven summers now. She once brightly told me, pigtails bouncing, that she and her mother come up to visit her grandfather every year. She used to tug on her mother’s hand, begging for candy and attention.
Now, she waits in the car outside the shop, her nose stuck in her phone.
Next time she comes inside, I will remind her that her mother is getting older too. ”
—TN
The one before that was written by me, over three years ago.
“The gray-haired man with the bright yellow boots comes through once a year at the end of May. He buys a pack of cigarettes, a tub of worms, and beef jerky from the endcap next to the cash register. He jokes that his wife only allows him to smoke when he goes fishing by himself. He tells me that the smell of cigarettes bothers her. That she worries too much about his health. I smile politely, wondering if he knows how loved he is. The significance of someone hoping to keep you alive as long as possible.”
—PW
For the rest of the day, I hold my breath as the bell chimes above the door, hoping for someone worth writing about and breaking our long, but hopefully not permanent, hiatus. But the day passes in numbing monotony.
I check my phone again, hoping to see a message from Milo. He’d texted this morning, offering to come by to paint with Mom, but after I let him know she wasn’t going to be able to today, he never replied.
We ended things on good terms yesterday, or so I’d thought.
We played a few more rounds of truth or dare, nothing too salacious, until we saw a shooting star.
After that, Milo pointed out the constellations for me one by one, looking up at the night sky as if it were a past lover.
For the most part, I just stared at his hand, wondering how mine might fit inside of it.
When I eventually dozed off, he sweetly woke me up with a chaste kiss to the forehead before helping me carry my things up to the house.
But, after that, it took an awkward turn.
I think neither of us knew how to end the evening within the confines of whatever our dynamic is, or will be, and instead of saying that, we both stood around waiting for the other to speak.
Eventually, Milo gingerly placed the lantern on the steps of my parents’ back porch, bowed with his hands deeply shoved into his pockets, and walked off toward the main road without a word.
I didn’t overthink it at the time. But I am now.
Is he regretting agreeing to my suggestion? I thought, honestly, he’d be a little more eager to show me the ropes. At least a flirty text or two or a plan to see each other. Maybe I’m expecting too much.
Just then, the door chimes as a striking man in work boots and a flannel button-down shirt walks in. He has thick, dark hair, a full beard, and eyes that are far too familiar to make him anyone but Milo’s older brother, Nik.
He bypasses me without a glance my way, walking with purpose toward the fridges.
When I dare another peek in his direction, he’s lost half of his arm to the refrigerator, trying to reach the carton at the back. We don’t stock them in order of expiry date, but it would feel mean to tell him that now.
After he collects his few groceries, Nik makes his way toward the check-out counter.
I smile politely as he lays out his items for me, instead of just placing the basket down for me to unpack, like the nonlocals do.
He smiles back, then stifles a yawn. Probably because of the newborn baby he’s just brought home that I should maybe not know about…
I don’t know if I should address him by name or congratulate him or act none the wiser.
I should know, having been raised in this relentlessly nosy small town. I never liked when someone knew my business without me having told them. But throw in the your-brother-and-I-have-got-a-weird-thing-going-on element and this feels like new, strange territory.
“Good afternoon,” I say at the exact moment Nik says, “You’re Prue, right?”
“Yeah, hi,” I answer, nodding as I type the cost of a can of peaches into the register. I continue to add his items as he glances around the shop, periodically and hesitantly smiling at me. “And you’re Nik?”
“Yeah, hi,” he returns, looking up to the red arrow sign hanging above the desk. “I heard you came by with Milo the other day to help when my wife went into labor. Thank you.”
I hit enter, and the register adds to his total amount as I pick up his loaf of bread and place it at the top of the paper bag. “You don’t have to thank me.” I slide the bag across the counter. “It’s what neighbors do, right?”
The spark is there, but quieter. The curious, teasing smirk that Milo so often has loudly dancing across his features is far more subdued on his older brother. “Right… Neighbors. ”
“$42.12,” I tell him.
“I’m going to level with you…” he says, handing me his credit card to swipe.
“My wife sent me here with what I’m certain is a list of items we do not need, so I could invite you over for dinner.
She told me to say that the invitation was a thank-you for helping with the kids while we were out but, between us, I think we both know that’s bullshit.
She wants, well, we both want, to meet the woman who’s got my little brother all twisted up in knots.
” He pauses, scratching at his beard as he looks at the candy on the counter, and tosses a chocolate bar my way.
“With that being said, would you like to?”
I stare at him blankly, reaching for the candy bar.
“Come over for dinner?” he asks, nodding as if I should begin doing so as well.
“I, um—” I stop, remembering that I’ve yet to hear from Milo since this morning. “I think I should ask Milo first, to see if he’s…” My voice trails off as I punch in the cost of his chocolate. “$45.62”
“If he’s ready for you to meet us?” he finishes for me as he points to the credit card already in my hand.