Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Farley
The mustache had been a thing of beauty.
I was still thinking about it as we pulled into the Whole Foods parking lot—that lopsided disaster clinging to Samuel’s upper lip like a dying caterpillar.
The earnest determination in his eyes as he’d tried to explain his disguise strategy.
The way his face had fallen when one side detached mid-conversation.
I hadn’t laughed like that in weeks. Maybe months.
“You’re still thinking about the mustache,” Samuel said, unbuckling his seatbelt.
“I’m absolutely still thinking about the mustache.”
“It wasn’t that bad.”
“It was actively terrible.” I turned off the engine and looked at him. “But I respect the commitment to the bit.”
Samuel grinned—that wide, unguarded smile that made him look nothing like the carefully polished heartthrob I’d seen in Google Images.
This version of him was rumpled and real, wearing a baseball cap at a normal angle and a forest-green sweater that probably cost more than my monthly grocery budget but looked wonderfully ordinary.
“Come on,” he said, climbing out of the Range Rover. “Let’s go buy overpriced organic produce like the insufferable people we are.”
I followed him across the parking lot, watching the easy way he moved now that he’d shed the sequined sweater and fake facial hair. He seemed lighter somehow. Less guarded.
Or maybe I was projecting. Maybe I felt lighter, having someone to drive to Charlottesville with, someone who made me laugh instead of wince.
Inside, Whole Foods was doing its best impression of urban sophistication transplanted into Virginia farmland. Gleaming produce displays, artisanal cheese counters, a juice bar that probably charged twelve dollars for sixteen ounces of kale-adjacent sludge.
Samuel made a beeline for the refrigerated section, and I grabbed a cart, following at a more sedate pace.
“Found it!” He held up a bottle of kombucha like he’d discovered the Holy Grail. “Ginger-turmeric. This is the good stuff.”
“It looks like something dredged from a swamp.”
“That’s how you know it’s working.” He tossed three bottles into the cart. “Gut health is no joke, Farley.”
“I’m lactose intolerant. I’m intimately familiar with gut health.”
“Then you should be thanking me for introducing you to the wonders of fermented tea.”
“I’m not drinking that.”
“You haven’t even tried it.”
“I don’t need to try it to know it’s a crime against beverages.”
Samuel’s eyes lit up with competitive glee. “Okay. Challenge. You try my kombucha, I try your—what do you drink? Besides bourbon and judgement?”
“Coffee. Like a civilized human.”
“Boring.” He grabbed another bottle. “Come on, Farley. Live a little.”
There was something about the way he said my name—playful, teasing, intimate—that made my chest do something complicated. This was flirting. We were definitely flirting.
Which was fine. Flirting was harmless.
Except it didn’t feel harmless. It felt like standing at the edge of something dangerous and exhilarating, wondering if the fall would kill me or teach me to fly.
“Fine,” I said. “One sip. But if I die from fermented ginger, I’m haunting you.”
“Deal.”
We made our way through the store, Samuel loading the cart with an alarming array of California wellness products while I grabbed the basics—coffee, bread, cheese, vegetables that didn’t require a degree in holistic nutrition to prepare.
He kept up a running commentary about everything we passed.
The overpriced grain-free crackers (“They’re made from cassava!
It’s a tuber, Farley!”). The selection of nut butters (“Almond butter is so 2019. Cashew butter is where it’s at”).
The alarming variety of non-dairy milks (“Oat milk is superior to all other milks, and I will die on this hill”).
I found myself smiling more than I had in a month. Maybe longer.
We rounded the corner into the pet supply aisle, and both of us stopped dead.
Cat food. Rows and rows of it. Dry food, wet food, grain-free, organic, freeze-dried, suspiciously gourmet options that cost more per ounce than my own groceries.
Samuel looked at the display. Then at me. Then, very deliberately, started to push the cart past it.
“Wait,” I said.
He stopped. “We were told not to feed her.”
“I know.”
“Gladys was very specific.”
“She was.” I picked up a bag of premium grain-free kibble. Salmon and sweet potato. The reviews on the label claimed it promoted a healthy coat shine. “But it’s December. And cold. And she’s been spending a lot of time on my porch.”
“She’s been in my cabin a lot, too.” Samuel studied the bag in my hands. “That’s probably a good brand.”
“You know about cat food?”
“I had a cat growing up. Serena. Very dignified. She hated everyone except my mom.” He paused. “We should get the wet food too. For variety.”
Something about the way he said it—casual, practical, like we hadn’t just agreed to jointly violate Gladys’s explicit instructions—made my chest tight. This was just neighborly cooperation. Two people making sure a stray cat didn’t starve during a mountain winter.
It meant nothing.
“Right,” I said. “For variety.”
We loaded the cart in silence—kibble, wet food, even a small bag of treats that Samuel insisted were “good for dental health.” Neither of us acknowledged what we were doing or what it might mean that we were doing it together.
Because it didn’t mean anything.
It couldn’t.
We checked out without incident—Samuel kept his baseball cap on and his head down, and the teenager at the register was more interested in their phone than in whether Dr. Brock Blaze was buying forty dollars’ worth of cat food and fermented beverages.
“See?” Samuel said as we loaded bags into the Range Rover. “No mustache required.”
“The bar was already so low, and yet somehow you’ve still exceeded it.”
“Your compliments are really something special, Farley.”
“I’m known for my effusive praise.”
He laughed, and the sound wrapped around me like warmth. We were standing in a parking lot in suburban Charlottesville, surrounded by grocery bags and December cold, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt this... light.
“Farley?”
Samuel was looking at something over my shoulder, his expression shifting from relaxed to tense in the space of a heartbeat.
I turned.
A group of women—five of them, ranging in age from what looked like late fifties to early seventies—were crossing the parking lot toward us. They were moving with the focused determination of a pack of wolves who’d spotted prey.
“Oh no,” Samuel whispered.
The lead woman—purple coat, sensible shoes, hair that had been set with enough product to survive a hurricane—pointed directly at him. “I knew it! Janet, I told you! That’s Dr. Brock Blaze!”
“I don’t think—” Samuel started.
“Don’t even try to deny it, young man!” Another woman—Janet, presumably—waggled a finger at him. “I’ve watched Midnight At Magnolia General every weekday for thirty-seven years. I’d recognize you anywhere!”
Samuel’s hand found my sleeve, gripping it with what felt like mild panic. “I really need to—”
“We need photos!” A third woman was already pulling out her phone. “My daughter will never believe this!”
The pack was closing in. Samuel looked at me with genuine alarm in his eyes, and something in my chest shifted—a protective instinct I hadn’t felt in months, maybe years.
This wasn’t a polished celebrity who could charm his way through a red carpet.
This was someone who’d come to the mountains to escape exactly this, standing frozen in a parking lot while his privacy evaporated.
I made a decision.
“Run,” I said.
“What?”
I grabbed his wrist. “Run. Now.”
We ran.
Behind us, I heard one of the women shout, “They’re getting away!” but we were already halfway across the parking lot, heading toward the small strip mall adjacent to the Whole Foods.
“Where are we going?” Samuel gasped.
“Photo booth!” I pointed at the old-fashioned booth tucked between a nail salon and a dry cleaner.
We reached it just as the women rounded the corner of the Whole Foods. I yanked the curtain aside and practically shoved Samuel inside, diving in after him.
The curtain fell closed behind us, and suddenly the world compressed into darkness and the smell of old vinyl and Samuel’s cologne—something woodsy and expensive that I absolutely should not be noticing.
The space was tiny. We were pressed together on the narrow bench, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. I could feel the warmth of him through both our coats.
“Did they see us?” Samuel whispered.
I carefully lifted the edge of the curtain. The women were still congregated outside, looking around, confused about where we’d disappeared to.
“They’re looking for us,” I reported. “But they haven’t figured out we’re in here.”
“How long do we wait?”
“Until they give up or move on.”
Samuel shifted slightly, trying to get comfortable in the cramped space, and his knee bumped against mine. “This is absurd.”
“Completely ridiculous.”
“I’m a grown man hiding in a photo booth from church ladies.”
“Very determined church ladies,” I corrected.
He made a sound that was half laugh, half groan. Then his hand found the edge of the bench between us, steadying himself, and his pinky finger brushed against mine.
Neither of us moved.
“We should probably look like we’re actually using the booth,” Samuel said after a moment. “In case they notice the curtain is closed.”
“Good point.” I fed money into the machine. “Might as well commit to the farce.”
The screen lit up, counting down from five. We both turned toward the camera, trying to arrange ourselves into something that looked normal and not like two people actively fleeing from deranged fans.
Flash.
The first photo caught us both looking startled and too close together, my shoulder pressed against his.
“That’s going to look terrible,” Samuel muttered.
“Absolutely terrible.”
Flash.
The second caught us both trying not to laugh at how ridiculous this was.