Chapter 13 – Poppy #2
Ignoring the dirty looks the shoppers sent my way, I began selecting sweet baby reds. I just needed something soft, rich, and filling. Calories to fight the illness. But making something as simple as mashed potatoes was going to leave me exhausted.
“Poppy, wasn’t it?” a pleasant voice asked behind us.
The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. I looked like shit in my yoga pants and slouchy tee, hair flipped on the top of my head in a bun, and face red, dry, and haggard.
But still I turned to the voice. “Mr. Dallas, how nice to see you again.”
The commissioner hadn’t missed the chance to chat me up—twice—at my cousin’s dinner party. Newly divorced, he was already sweeping the playing field. I had no interest in being anyone’s conquest, and there was no way I was bringing home a guy like him to meet Brady.
Brady, who watched the commissioner with interest, fruit selecting abandoned.
“I was just walking the neighborhood with a team from Haroldson’s office. Now I’m glad I found myself so thirsty.” He held up the cola, but there was no missing the innuendo in his words.
I felt sick.
I was sick.
But that feeling was a whole different thing, and it didn’t help.
“That has sugar and bad chemicals in it,” Brady informed the commissioner helpfully. “You should drink the soda with probiotics in it. That helps your tummy!”
I groaned. Why, why! I told my son those things in confidence, trying to teach him about life and how to live a good one. I never instructed him to teach the world. Yet the good, kindhearted boy seemed to have no problem offering his education to anyone and everyone at every available opportunity.
I blamed myself. We didn’t get out much.
Sure, there was the family. And church. But our small town knew who we were, and there were other things for him to talk about. Somehow, in the big city, he seemed to think everyone needed to be as “crunchy” as us.
“Well, hello, little fella, aren’t you cute?” the commissioner cooed and leaned down. Condescension dripped from his aura as he sized up my boy. “Who told you pop was bad? Hmm? Been hearing stories, have we?”
“Mama said,” Brady explained with a shrug.
“We should let Mr. Dallas get back to his shopping,” I hedged.
“Call me Steve, please, Poppy.” The commissioner wiggled his brows up at me before continuing to insult my son’s intelligence. “This here is a classic. Don’t let new fads tell you different, okay, bucko?”
The smug look on his face was asking to be slapped off.
I bit my tongue, choosing to hurry the interaction to its inevitable close rather than engage.
Brady seemed genuinely hurt that his helpfulness was being rejected. “Ivan said the same thing about cereal.”
And now I understood.
“Ivan?” The commissioner shot me a look. “Ivan Mladenov? How’d you know him?”
“He’s my—”
I grabbed Brady, hauling him onto my hip. “Pick out some bananas, okay. We’ve got to get back.”
“He’s your what?” the commissioner pressed.
I squeezed Brady and set him down.
Just then, Rayko stepped through the sliding door.
He swept a look over the produce section before spying us.
My stomach dropped as Rayko’s six-foot-something frame filled the doorway.
The sharp look he wore was the same as a predator when they were assessing their prey.
His eyes were the worst. Cold, dead things that reminded me of a fallen angel.
They locked onto the commissioner with lethal focus, the pupils constricting to pinpoints.
Please, no.
But the guard was there the next moment. “Time to go.”
“Just let me grab some garlic and shallots,” I told him.
The commissioner looked between the mobster and me. I didn’t like the calculated weight of his stare.
“Do you need something?” Rayko barked.
The commissioner held up his hands. “No, we’re good. I’ll see you later, Poppy. You should wipe your nose. It’s dripping.”
The urge to dissolve into the grooved linoleum, to simply melt into the floor and out of the produce aisle, was nearly overwhelming.
My ears burned hot, the skin on my cheekbones prickling with humiliation.
All I could see behind my eyes was the frozen image of the commissioner’s smirk.
I wanted to die, but until then—until I found a way to disappear or at least get through checkout—I had to soldier on with a performance of normalcy for my son.
I forced myself to focus on gathering the items. If I broke down here, Brady would see it, and I’d never forgive myself.
The sweet summer child was already watching me, a question in his eyes.
He held an orange in both hands like a peace offering he didn’t know how to deliver.
I gave him a weak smile, my lips trembling with effort.
Snot tickled my upper lip, and I realized the commissioner had been right.
I did need to wipe my nose. I fished a tissue from the tiny pocket sewn in the waistband, a fresh wave of humiliation ready to drown me.
Rayko, seeing that the situation was diffused, lurked by the coolers and glared at anyone who dared to stare at us.
I finished filling my bag with potatoes, dropped in some garlic and a few bananas for Brady, and then made for the next aisle with my head down.
We were almost out of milk, but there was no hope of finding raw milk here.
The single aisle that was labeled organic food was a joke, but at least there were some things.
Folding the tissue, I blew gently while grabbing the rest of the items I needed. Mashed potatoes weren’t worth this.
“Boss said you weren’t supposed to talk to anyone,” Rayko glowered behind me.
“I wasn’t,” I snapped. “He approached me.”
The guard chuffed.
I threw the last things in the cart and pushed it to the checkout. As I unloaded the cart, Brady waved to the door. The commissioner was leaving, busy on his phone. Irrational anger filled my chest as Brady turned back. The kid might not know when not to offer unwanted advice, but he was eager.
And he was kind.
Goodness itself.
The way that man spoke down to Brady as if my boy was a puppy or the slow child from a cautionary tale was disgusting.
I was already annoyed by the lewd glances, but now I was furious with the man for daring to breathe the same air as my boy.
I let the anger harden beneath my ribs. It burned white-hot, waiting to be released.
Slapping my card into Rayko’s hand, I marched forward, bolstered by my anger.
“Stay with Mr. Ray,” I instructed my boy, who was already too busy loading the groceries in the reusable paper bags.
I ignored the guard’s sharp bark as the sliding doors opened.
“Hey, Steve!” I shouted.
The commissioner’s head snapped up. A slimy, pervy smile branched over his face.
“I’m sorry my son offered unsolicited advice, but the way you talked to him was not okay,” I said, balling my fists at my side. It didn’t matter how sick I was, how crappy I felt. This shit didn’t stand. “You don’t make a child feel dumb. Ever. Especially when they’re sharing information with you.”
The man’s top lip curled as he watched me. “You came out here to yell at me?”
“Damn right I did,” I snapped. “No one makes my boy feel stupid and gets away with it.”
The commissioner pointed a finger at me. “You’re crazy.”
It wasn’t hard to imagine the way this looked. Me, looking like a zombie and yelling. Not my finest moments. But the memory of Brady’s hurt face made my jaw clench tight. I couldn’t remember a time when I felt such scalding, deliberate rage.
At that moment, it dawned on me. It wasn’t the commissioner who I was so mad at. It was the boy’s father.
He’s next, I promised myself.
“Maybe I am crazy, but you’re a bad man for sneering at a child. My child.” I huffed, forcing back a cough. “I hope you have a terrible rest of your day.”
I turned, knowing it wasn’t the best line I could have delivered. My performance hadn’t gone unnoticed either. A sweet-faced mother with three kids piled into a cart filled to the brim watched me march to join Rayko.
“Mhmm, you got him good.” She smiled at me. “That’s some big mama-bear energy, right there.”
My voice wobbled. “Thanks.”
“Hey, mama, you’re doing a great job.” She opened her arms and tried to hug me.
“Oh, no!” I yelped, pulling back. “I’ve got a cold and—”
“It’s alright, I’m a nurse. I work in the cold-flu factory and haven’t been sick yet this year,” she argued and wrapped her arms around me. “Come here, mama bear. You’re doing a good job. Okay?”
“Okay.” The adrenaline from yelling was fast slipping away, and in its place, a wave of emotions threatened me.
“We moms need to stick together, ya know?” she added, giving me another squeeze before releasing me. “I was ‘bout to murder someone the other day and ended up crying in the staff bathroom.”
I blinked at her, tears threatening to spill over from her warm kindness. “You’re doing a great job too.”
“I am.” She winked. “But thank you, girl. I appreciate that.”
We shared another moment before I moved on to join the stunned mobster and my son.
Rayko was a little less surly in the five-minute drive back to the house.
He kept shooting glances at me, as if he thought I might bite his head off too.
I made the decision to bring him a bowl of mashed potatoes later that evening. Really throw him for a loop.