Chandler
CHANDLER
“ K en emailed me the paperwork for the roadside assistance," Sam grunts out while pushing the couch back to its spot in the room later that evening. “He said that we’ll have to call them on Monday and not worry about the hotel this weekend since we’re technically off.”
“Well, that’s good," I say, moving the armchair back into the corner. After we both showered, we got back to work, putting down the new rug and setting up the new bookshelf, filling it up almost to full capacity. We both huff as we fall back onto the couch, worn and tired. Sam looks over at me, smiling. “We did it!”
“We did!”
We high-five and sink back into the newly cleaned couch.
“It’s so nice in here," I say, taking it all in. It’s almost better than I remember it being as a kid.
“It is," she says. She looks around the space, smiling brightly. “I would love to have a place like this in a town like this one.”
“Would you? I thought you liked being in a bigger city. ”
“No, I do, but.” She looks down at the rug. “Growing up, we never really stayed in one place, and I never really had an idea of what ‘home’ was, you know? When Penny and I moved to Florida, it was nice after a while, but it’d be nice to slow things down and live somewhere that isn’t so busy.”
“It’s not all it’s cracked up to be," I say.
“Of course, it’s not. But for someone like me, I wouldn’t mind slowing down a bit. I spend a lot of time thinking about what it would be like to live in a small town, have my own interior design business, and see everyone I know when I go to the grocery store. I know it probably sounds ridiculous, but it would be such a relief to have that.”
“It’s not ridiculous," I say, shaking my head. “But living in a small town isn’t always so great, especially when everyone knows you. Rumors get started. Sometimes, when people hear something about you, true or not, they’ll make up their minds about who you are and no matter what you do, you can change their opinion of you. It sucks when that happens.”
She tilts her head, studying me. “What do you mean?”
“I mean," I let out a breath. “I got into trouble a lot, so people always had this idea that I wouldn't grow up to be much.”
“What do you mean, trouble?” She looks at me, her brows furrowing.
“As a teenager,” I say. "I caused a lot of problems around this town. I think people still have this idea of me, that I'm still that same kid.”
“That was a long time ago, though,” she says.
“Yeah, but when people make up their minds about you, it's hard to change it.”
She sits up, facing me, and I have the urge to just tell her everything. I want to tell her I do. But what would she think?
“You don't have to tell me,” she says. “But if you ever want to, I'll listen. ”
“I know you will,” I say.
“So,” she says, smiling at me. "What are we going to do about dinner?"
The grocery store is about 3 miles from the house, and when we walk in, I grab a cart, Sam by my side. “Do you know how to cook?” She asks. I shrug. I don’t burn my Ramen if that’s what she means. “I can cook a few things. Why? You expect me to cook tonight?”
She smiles at me, teasing me. “Of course, it’s the least you can do to thank me for helping you with the house.”
I roll my eyes. “Sure, even though I never asked for your help, which I do appreciate, by the way.”
“I know you do. I just hate cooking.”
“Do you know how to cook?”
“Yes, and my food is absolutely delicious, thank you very much. I just hate doing it.”
I shake my head. “I’ll cook tonight," I say. “But I expect you to return the favor at some point.”
She shakes her head, smiling.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“Steak.”
“Anything but steak. I hate cooking steak inside, and there’s no grill.”
“Fine. Pasta.”
“Pasta? What kind?”
“I don’t know, just throw some sauce on it.”
“Throw some sauce on it!? Woman, you don’t just throw sauce on pasta!”
“Sure you do.”
“Nah, uh," I say, shaking my head. “I may not know how to cook a lot of things, but pasta is my specialty.”
“Is it?” She asks skeptically.
“Yep, and I’m going to make you the best damn pasta you’ve ever tasted. ”
“Okay, I’ll hold you to that.”
We walk around the grocery store, and I grab all of the ingredients I need to make dinner tonight, along with a bottle of wine. Same grabs a half carton of eggs, some cheese, and a small carton of milk. “Breakfast," she says.
When we go to checkout, Sam stands in line in front of me, but when I see who the cashier is, I instantly clam up. “Hey, why don’t we go in that line," I say and point to the line next to us.
“Why? We’re almost next," she says.
“I just like the number 5 better than 6," I say. She blinks at me.
“I literally can’t tell if you’re joking. I can totally see you having a favorite number.”
“I do," I lie.
She cocks her head to the side.
“Look," she says, pointing in front of us to the conveyor belt. “We’re next.”
“Oh, good," I say, my voice a little higher than normal.
We load everything onto the conveyor belt, and I try my best to keep my head down. Sam stands in front of me while our things are being scanned, and for once, I wish she was a little taller so she could hide my face. “Sam," I whisper, wanting to tell her that we really need to move aisles. Ms. Partridge absolutely hates me after I backed my Gramps's truck into the horse fence during a barbeque. When the horse saw an exit, they ran right toward her during an apple bobbing contest, and she fell face-first into the bucket, upside down, and threw out her back. She was also wearing a dress that day. I’m pretty sure seeing her dress flipped upside-down is why I had to go to therapy. Ever since then, she claims to still have lasting aches and pains, but I’m pretty sure she just says it to try and make me feel bad. I don’t. Hopefully, she won’t recognize me .
“Did you find everything all…” She pauses and looks at me wide-eyed. “, is that you? Oh, hell!”
Fuck! I look up, and Ms. Partridge looks like she’s seen a ghost. And she is not happy about the ghost. She also sounds like she gargled nails for breakfast. I clear my throat. “Hi, Ms. Partridge.”
“I thought you left town…”
“I’m here for work," I say. She narrows her eyes at me and then glances at Sam, who is standing next to me, looking wide-eyed and confused. Ms. Partridge continues to scan our items, keeping eye contact with me the entire time. “Seems like a lot of groceries for a work trip.”
“Yep," I say. She keeps eye contact when she goes to scan the canned tomatoes but drops them on the floor, and they roll away to the other side of the checkout counter. She looks down at them and then back up at me.
“Can you get that?” Then she narrows her eyes at me and says. “I have a bad back.”
Here we go. I straighten up, smiling, and say, "Sure thing. Wouldn't want you to fall."
She grunts, still giving me a dirty look when I pick up the tomatoes and hand them to her. She scans them, dropping them in the bag with a loud clank. She scans the wine and then looks at me deadpan. “ID, please.”
“You know how old I am,” I say, but she just continues to stare at me pointedly. I take out my wallet and hand her my ID.
Then she looks at Sam. “Yours too.”
Sam hands her her driver's license, and she gives us back our cards, finishing up scanning our items.
"$75.53," she says. While I pay for our things, Sam is trying to look anywhere but at Ms. Partridge. Out of the corner of my eye, she makes eye contact and tries to smile, but Ms. Partridge doesn't budge .
"Have a nice ‘work trip,’" she says, using air quotes.
“Oh, we will," I say. Sam gives me an amused look when we head back to the truck.
“Is that what you meant about people not liking you?”
“Kind of," I say, getting in the driver’s seat and setting the bags in the back seat.
“Well," Sam says, opening her door and climbing into the passenger seat, slamming the door shut. “It didn’t seem that bad.”
I smile at her, shaking my head. “You have no idea.”