Chapter Six
This nearly ruined my life.
Ceres
“I’m so sorry, Ceres. I don’t know what happened. I guess the system glitched. It’s not unheard of when there’s an unusually heavy amount of site traffic,” Amelia says, while I stare at my phone.
My grocery order…has been canceled. But I definitely didn’t cancel it.
Often, the brands I like aren’t always available, so I’ll get replacements, and sometimes those replacements aren’t close enough to my usual brand to keep me from wanting to curl up and die, so I go without, but…to go without everything ? After I got in my car and drove all the way out here?
Even if I replace the order, it’ll be hours before it’s ready again.
I either have to shop inside , or go home and try again later and—
Amelia makes a soft, distressed sound that heightens the panic growing in my chest. She’s chewing her lip when I force myself to look out my car window at her. Softly, she says, “All our pickup times are full until Monday…”
“Monday?” I whisper.
She nods. “I’m so sorry, Ceres. It’s the weekend before a holiday. People are getting ready for it and trying to save some time.”
Yeah. And the rest of the people getting ready for it are currently inside the building.
I am out of food.
Completely out.
I don’t even have rice left. I am stringent about my meal plan and my shopping day. It’s a strict, careful process that involves pushing the limit on how few times I must go beyond my driveway.
“Mel?” a familiar voice as of yesterday calls, cutting through the rising tempo of my heart.
Amelia turns, pushing a lock of hair not trapped in her pristine bun over her ear. A glowing smile appears on her face. “Hi, Mars.”
Mars. Of course it’s Mars.
What is Mars doing here?
Trying to swallow the heartbeat in my throat, I look back as he approaches, hands tucked in his leather jacket pockets. “It’s been a minute since we last crossed paths. Are they still giving you weird hours?”
Amelia’s brightness siphons off, and she sags. “They really are. Sometimes they have me out here. Sometimes they have me stocking overnight. It’s a mess. But I need the shifts.”
“And they know that,” Mars offers, tone as gentle as it is firm. “They’re taking advantage of you, Mel.”
Her gaze falls. “Yeah. I know. But. What else am I supposed to do? I need the job, and so do a lot of other people. Anyone can do this stuff. I’m replaceable.”
Mars shakes his head, lifts a finger, and pokes Amelia between the brows.
“Only with that kind of attitude.” His attention shifts toward my window, and his lips part.
“Oh. Well. I was going to ask if this customer was giving you any trouble since you’d been standing here the entire time it took me to walk up from the back of the lot, but—” His white teeth flash.
“—my little goddess would never give a service worker any trouble.”
I think my eye is about to twitch.
Amelia sinks. “Something happened to Ceres’s pickup order, and it was canceled.”
Mars’s nose scrunches. “Ew. Technology.”
I’m sorry. Why is Amelia sharing my business with Mars ?
“I feel terrible,” Amelia murmurs. “But there’s nothing I can do about it. The order was cancelled. It would have to be put back into the system, assuming the products haven’t already started to be restocked, and we’re so busy right now…”
Just tell him my life story I guess. Grimacing, I ask, “Since when are you two friends?”
Mars arches a brow. “We went to school together. I wouldn’t say we’re friends , but…” He looks at my friend. “Amicable acquaintances, maybe?”
Folding her hands together behind her cute dress, Amelia says, “A friend of Brian’s is a friend of mine.”
Amusement crosses the Rogue brother’s eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re still hopelessly obsessed with mail boy.”
“Mail man ,” Amelia corrects, flushing, “and I don’t plan to tell you anything.”
“Brian has connections in a really good company. If you reach out to him, I’m sure he could get you a remote, or local , position.
Then, you wouldn’t have to deal with this nonsense and you might be able to do more than stalk him on social media…
assuming of course you’re stalking him on social media…
and if your high school record is anything to go by… ”
Amelia coughs and smooths her hands down her skirt, straightening her bright blue Walmart vest. “I absolutely do not do that and have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Very convincing.” Mars lifts his cell phone out of his pocket. “I have his number. Want me to ask for you?”
Amelia squeaks and lunges, grabbing Mars’s hand. “Absolutely not!”
He shrugs. “All right. If you’re sure. I can’t force you into a better lifestyle.
You have to figure out you want one by yourself.
” His attention lands on me again, and I have a disturbed feeling I won’t like what he’s about to suggest, but all he says is, “Want me to repark your car in a normal spot and go in with you?”
I swallow, possibly sending shards of glass down my throat. “What?”
“You don’t like to drive, so I’ll move your car for you, and you don’t like to shop in person because of all the people in this town who get chatty , so I’ll go in with you as a shield.
” He swaps his phone out for a list scrawled upon a small white sheet of paper with tiny monarch butterflies flitting across the bottom.
“We can shop together. I’ll even push the cart. ”
My lashes flutter as I stare at a man who broke into my house yesterday, refused to take no for an answer, and coerced me into starting work with him on a Flag Day festival come Monday. Despite everything , the halo of light glowing behind him suggests I should nominate him for sainthood.
You know.
Either that or he’s trying to steal my car and the glow is from a fire he just started.
But, then again, if he did want to steal my car, he could have grabbed the key I keep on a hook by the door yesterday when he waltzed into my house like he owned the place.
Right now, my options are to either accept his help, and whatever underhanded schemes come with it, or fast through Monday.
I’m not keen on fasting… The very idea makes me want three meals a day, as though I have had three meals a day even a single time in the past three years.
Ugh. Okay. I survived dinner with Mars last night, enjoyed it even.
Surely, this will also be fine.
This is not fine.
“Mars,” I say, all nerves concerning being within a crowded building forgotten, “I shouldn’t have to tell you that the cart is not a skateboard.”
“You’re so right. You should not have to. Yet, here we are.” He pushes off, gliding up the aisle while people part for him and leave us alone. Even Brandi, the chattiest tattoo artist in the world, thought twice before joining us in this aisle, and she has not said a word to us since entering it.
Mars is People Be Gone.
I’d like to bottle whatever vibes he puts out into the world, then keep that bottle on me at all times, even in my own house, just in case more of Bandera’s residents forget how to read the unwelcome mat outside my front door.
“You’re going to hurt yourself,” I say.
“Pain is but a fleeting moment, a reminder I am alive.” He skids to a stop in front of the condiments. Then he looks at me. “Forgive me, little goddess. I’m hogging the fun. Do you want a turn?”
Not even a little bit. I do, however, want pickles.
I’m just not certain they’ll survive the G-force in Mars’s racecar.
Jutting a lip, I lock my eyes on the glass jars, then on Mars’s bright green irises. He follows my gaze and drapes an arm over the cart handle. “They’ll be fine.”
“That’s the can-do attitude that got me into this mess,” I mumble as I reach for the industrial-size jar that will last me until my next shopping day.
Mars snorts, but he stops skating around once the jar lands beside the less-breakable items we’ve already collected.
Mercifully, the meaningless buzz of other customers chatting blends with the music for a few blissful minutes. Alas, we only make it through two more aisles before Mars says, “So.”
Dumping my assortment of bread rations for the next month into the baby seat of the cart, I echo, “So…?”
His usual too-wide smile overwhelms his face. “How are you?”
I blink at the crazy man, cut my eyes toward the shelves of bread, and reach for another bag of burger buns.
I think I’m going to eat burgers every other day for the next three weeks.
“Fine.” I drop the bag in the cart. And add a third, just in case.
I have been known to eat three-to-five burgers when left to my own devices.
Possibly because those devices often lead me to eat a single giant meal a day instead of several small meals like people are supposed to. In my defense, it’s not my fault that books are more interesting than food.
Mars clears his throat. “Are you going to ask me how I am?”
“No.”
“Not a fan of small talk. I respect that. How about you ask me which is my favorite card game?”
Next up, I need to restock my pasta and rice. Scanning my phone and the history of my previous orders, I murmur, “How about I ask your opinion on abortion and the current government leaders?”
“Until the day I acquire ovaries, I’m keeping my opinion firmly out of that conversation.”
“ Acquire ,” I echo. “What an interesting word choice.”
“Almost as interesting as your response.”
I retrieve industrial-size boxes of spaghetti. “We’re a real interesting pair, that’s for sure. About as interesting as…” I say the first horrific mixture I can think of. “…banana lemonade.”
“Banana lemonade is delightful.”
I pause halfway through obtaining several large boxes of macaroni—for pasta salad days, which shall provide variety amid the burger days—and look toward my companion.
Mars, calmly and disinterestedly, yawns.
As though he’s not said anything deeply disturbing at all.
“Surely you haven’t—” I begin.
“Had a banana frozen lemonade? I have. They’re an option you can pick on the kiosk at the gas station on Walls Road. Despite my commitment to the glory and wonder that is Taco Bell, I am distressed to admit I do not at all care for Baja Blast; therefore, other drink options had to rise.”
My poor brain struggles to keep up. “You prefer frozen banana lemonade to Baja Blast?”
“ Banana frozen lemonade , and yes. Would you like to try one once we’re done here?”
“My stomach hurts just thinking about it.”
“The stomach pain is but a fleeting moment, a reminder you are alive.”
I’m grocery shopping with a lunatic.
But he is pushing the cart, so it’s fine.
“They also have frozen hot chocolate,” he informs me.
I stop advancing to the next aisle.
Frozen hot chocolate, huh?
Well, I do love me an oxymoron.
“Fine,” I say. “But you’re driving.”