Chapter 15
LAINE
Spinach. Eggs. Bread.
I'm writing this stuff down on actual paper like some kind of domestic goddess.
When did I become the person who makes grocery lists?
I used to wander around whatever store was closest and grab things that looked edible.
Once, in Honduras, my entire weekly shop was a bag of rice, some mangoes, and whatever the street vendor was selling that didn't look like it would kill me.
Now I'm sitting here planning meals for the week. Meals. Like I'm going to cook them in my own kitchen with my own pans.
God, I'm such a grown-up.
My phone buzzes. Mom, like she's got some kind of maternal surveillance system: How are you, sweetheart? Getting enough to eat?
I snap a picture of my list and send it. Making a list right now. Don't worry, I'm eating plenty.
Good girl. Love you.
She'd be so proud. Her wandering daughter, finally acting like a responsible adult.
She probably doesn't need to know that half my "meal planning" involves leftover pizza and cereal for dinner.
Or that the list I just photographed has "actual vegetables" underlined twice because apparently I need to bully myself into nutrition.
I add "fruit that isn't in pie form" and stare at it. That feels aggressive, but I leave it.
The apartment's quiet. Saturday morning quiet with nowhere to be and nothing urgent to do.
So why do I keep looking at my phone?
It's not like Reid and I have plans. We hung out Wednesday night — that was just two days ago.
I can still feel where his hand rested on my thigh during the movie.
The warmth of him pressed against my side on the couch.
The way he'd lean over and whisper commentary during the slow parts, his breath warm on my neck, until I couldn't concentrate on the plot at all and honestly couldn't tell you what the movie was about if you held me at gunpoint.
I don't want to be that girlfriend who needs constant attention.
But I kind of want constant attention. From him, specifically.
Am I being that girlfriend? Are we even at the point where I can call myself his girlfriend? We've been dating for seven weeks. That's nothing. That's barely a free trial.
I set the pen down. Enough.
The list goes in my bag, keys off the hook, wallet from the counter where I always dump it.
I shove my feet into sneakers without untying them and grab a hair clip from the bowl by the door.
Groceries. Errands. Normal Saturday things that normal people do instead of staring at their phone mooning over a boy.
My car starts on the second try. Is that something I should worry about?
It's not like I haven't been in cars that sputtered a bit, but this is the first time I've actually owned one.
It seems like the grown up thing to get someone to look at it.
I'm reaching for my phone when the screen lights up with Reid's name.
"Hey," I answer, trying to sound like a person with a full and independent life who didn't spend a whole bunch of time thinking about him this morning.
"Hey yourself." His voice is warm and a little rough, like he just woke up. That rough rasp sends a happy tingle through me. "What are you up to today?"
"Oh, you know. Living the dream. About to go grocery shopping."
Reid laughs, and my face splits into a grin that I'm glad he can't see. "Grocery shopping, huh? That does sound pretty exciting. Very adult of you. I'm impressed."
"Don't mock me. I've got a list and everything. I'm very organized today."
"A list? Damn, you really are adulting hard. I don't think I've ever made a grocery list in my life. I just wander around until I get hungry and then buy whatever's closest."
"Someone has to be the responsible one." I'm pulling back into my parking space without really thinking about it. Just... easing right back in. Like my car knows something I won't admit to. "What about you? Big Saturday plans?"
"Blake's already buried in his workshop, so I'm just... I don't know. Wandering around the house looking for something to do."
There's something in his voice. Not sad exactly, but maybe a little restless. Like he's feeling the same Saturday morning aimlessness I was trying to shake off five minutes ago by aggressively writing a grocery list.
"That sounds rough," I say.
"Yeah, well. I was thinking..." He pauses, and I can almost hear him thinking "This might be weird, but would you mind if I came along? To the grocery store, I mean. I need to pick up some stuff anyway, and..." He trails off. "I just want to see you. Even if it's just pushing a cart around."
My freaking heart. "You want to go grocery shopping with me?"
"I know it's not exactly exciting. But honestly, I'd watch you do laundry if it meant hanging out with you."
"Reid." I'm smiling so hard my cheeks hurt. "I would love the company."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. I'll pick you up in twenty minutes."
"You don't have to pick me up. I can drive."
"Nope. My list, my rules. Besides, I'm going near your place to get to the good grocery store."
"There's a good grocery store?"
"Oh, you poor man. You have so much to learn."
Eighteen minutes later, I'm pulling into Reid's driveway and he's already outside. Sitting on the porch like he's been there a while. Jeans, a t-shirt that's one wash cycle from becoming a dust rag, hair doing that thing where it looks like he raked his hand through it once and called it done.
He was waiting on the porch. For grocery shopping. With me. Like a golden retriever who heard the car keys jingle.
Who does that?
Reid's in the passenger seat before I've even fully stopped, and then his hands are on my face.
Thumbs on my cheekbones, tilting me toward him, and his mouth finds mine like it's the only thing he's been thinking about since I left his bed.
The kiss starts soft. Lasts about two seconds that way.
Then it's deep and a little desperate, and I'm gripping the front of that threadbare shirt, feeling the warmth of him bleed through the cotton.
Thank god I jammed my foot on the brake.
We pull apart. Both breathing too hard. His eyes are glazed, unfocused, like he forgot where we are. His thumb drags across my lower lip and I have to lock my elbows to keep from hauling him back.
We just look at each other.
We could go inside. It would be so, so easy. I don't need groceries. Nobody needs groceries. Who even eats anymore when I could just—
Okay. Not going there. Not yet. Groceries, Mitchell. You have a list. You wrote it on the back of a gas receipt like a functioning adult.
"Hi," he says. Voice like gravel.
It takes me a second to remember how to speak. "Hi yourself." Then I just grin at him like a complete lunatic. Full teeth. Possibly unhinged. Very attractive. "Right. What are we doing again?"
He laughs and tugs me close. This time the kiss is sweet and soft. I can't decide which one I like better. This man knows what he's doing.
And I'm sure he knows how to do a lot of other things too.
DOWN, Mitchell.
"Groceries, baby. Groceries."
The way he says baby — that grit, that warmth — sends a full shiver through me. He catches it. Of course he catches it. His grin goes smug instantly.
"Cold?"
"Shut up."
"I could warm you up."
"Reid. Groceries."
"Right. Groceries. Very important." But he's still grinning as he buckles his seatbelt, and honestly so am I, and we're both ridiculous and I don't care.
I've never driven my boyfriend in my car.
I've never actually owned a car before. Queen of rickshaws and tuk-tuks and whatever public transportation existed within walking distance — that was me.
But this? Driving my own car? Brand new experience.
The car itself is not new by any means. Dent in the back bumper.
Mysterious stain on the passenger seat that I've chosen not to investigate because some things are better left unknown.
But I'm still ridiculously proud of it. I love the red paint.
For so long I just used whatever was available, whatever was there, so getting to pick something as simple as the color? That feels like freedom.
"So where's this magical good grocery store?" he asks, and his hand lands on my thigh like it belongs there. Casual. Warm. Distracting.
"Oak Street. But we're making a strategic stop first."
"Strategic stop?" His thumb traces a small circle on my jeans, and I'm pretty sure he knows exactly what he's doing.
I grin and pull out of his driveway, trying to focus on the road instead of his hand. "You'll see."
The farmer's market is just setting up when we get there, vendors arranging their produce under white tents.
It's smaller than the ones I've been to in other cities — definitely smaller than the one in Chiang Mai that took up six city blocks and sold everything from mangosteen to live eels — but there's something charming about it.
"Farmer's market?" Reid asks as we walk between the stalls.
"Fresh stuff tastes better. Plus I like supporting local people." I pause at a stand with the most beautiful tomatoes I've ever seen. "Look at these."
Reid picks up a tomato and examines it like he's never seen one before, turning it over in his hands with exaggerated seriousness. "It's... very red."
"Reid. This is a perfect tomato. Feel how heavy it is."
He hefts it in his palm, brow furrowed like he's appraising a diamond. "Heavy tomato. Got it. What else should I be looking for? Emotional stability? Good credit score?"
"You're hopeless." But I'm laughing, and when I reach for the tomato, our fingers brush. He doesn't let go right away.
"I'm not hopeless. I'm learning. There's a difference."
He's right. And the fact that he's genuinely happy to learn from me instead of pretending he already knows everything? That feels really stinking good.