Chapter 3 #2
At 10:30, Frank came in, apologizing for being so late, but I brushed him off. “It was fine, slow morning. So slow that I managed to get the cakes and cupcakes baked for the orders,” I said, taking off my apron. “I’m just going to take a bit of a break before I tackle decorating them.”
“Absolutely, take an hour off,” he replied, then took the man’s order that was standing on the other side of the counter.
I left the bakery for my break with a headache already brewing behind my eyes.
What I wanted, more than anything, was a couple of Advil, a heated blanket, and about a year’s worth of sleep, all delivered to my couch by a sexy, broody male.
Instead, I got Main Street in full daylight, the snow glare so sharp it made the world vibrate.
I blinked rapidly as I hustled across the slushy road and beelined for the only place in town open until midnight, MacPherson’s Drug.
The bell rang as I entered, and I saw that old Mrs. MacPherson was at the front, reading a tabloid with her glasses perched halfway down her nose. She nodded at me and made a little grunting sound, which I think was her version of “hello.”
Mr. MacPherson stood at the pharmacy counter, filling prescriptions, and I nodded at him as I made my way down to the pain relief aisle.
I found the Advil and a three-for-one on Gatorade, deodorant, and a box of hand warmers for Nora.
I was juggling the items, cursing myself for not grabbing a shopping cart, when my body reminded me, via a sudden twist in my uterus, that my period was on its way and I had no feminine hygiene products at home.
The panic was swift and childish, as if I were fifteen again and buying contraband.
I grabbed the cheapest box of pads, stashed it under my arm, and added a box of tampons on top of the pile in my arms, hoping I didn’t run into someone I knew.
I should have known better. I rounded the endcap and nearly collided with Jake.
He was standing in front of the NyQuil display, trying to decide between “Extra Strength” and “Ultra Maximum Nighttime.” He looked at me, at the small mountain of stuff in my arms, and then back at the shelves.
I was mortified—the pads under one arm, and the box of tampons perched on top of a six-pack of Gatorade.
Jake’s eyes flickered to my face, then down, then up again. He didn’t say anything. Neither did I.
“Hey,” he said, finally.
I considered turning tail and running, but instead I went with a nonchalant approach. “Hey, yourself.”
He cleared his throat, the flush creeping up his neck. “Long morning?”
“Yes,” I said, too loudly. “Lots of, uh, stuff to do at the bakery. Got some cakes to finish.”
“Nice.” He nodded, as if this were a typical conversation between us and not a train wreck of personal hygiene and existential embarrassment.
Then, softly, he said, “Gatorade’s a good call.”
I could have died right then. Instead, I forced a smile, then gestured at his hand. “You get sick?”
He held up the two boxes and waggled them in the air. “Weighing my options.” His voice was tight, maybe from the cold, maybe from something else. “Don’t suppose you know which of these will sedate a grown man for a decade?”
I fumbled for a joke, found none. “Try a horse tranquilizer.”
His smile came slowly, reluctant but real. “Might be the only thing that works.”
We stood there, two idiots boxed in by rows of cough medicine and bad decisions. In the stillness, I caught the scent of his aftershave—fresh, sharp, a little like cedar. I tried to think of anything to say that wouldn’t make it worse.
He beat me to it. “Listen. I’m sorry about the other night. At the bar. You didn’t need me to step in.” He looked at the floor and ground his boot heel against the tile. “Wasn’t my business.”
My face went hot, then cold. “No, you…” I started seeing the tampons begin to slide off the drinks and panicked. I hoisted the drinks up towards my chest and breathed a sigh of relief when the tampons stayed put. “It was fine. That guy was a loser. You did the right thing.”
He looked skeptical. “You sure?”
I nodded, then regretted it when the pain behind my forehead surged. “Trust me. If I wanted him gone, he was going anyway; if you hadn’t stepped in, my brothers would have.”
He almost laughed, but the sound got trapped somewhere in his chest. “Yeah. I believe that.”
A silence opened again. He looked at the tampons. I looked at the DayQuil. Both of us were too stubborn to admit we cared about the other one noticing.
I started to move past him, my pile of stuff only seconds from tumbling to the floor.
He moved to the side but didn’t leave, just stood there with the medicine boxes clutched in one hand.
“Oh, I almost forgot. A package was delivered to my place yesterday with your name on it. I’ll put it between your doors when I get home. ”
I nodded. The air rippled between us before I thanked him, then muttered, ‘It was nice talking to you,’ as I scooted around him and escaped.
At the checkout, Mrs. MacPherson made a production of scanning each item, holding each box six inches from her face as if she were carbon-dating artifacts.
“Hmm, this doesn’t have a price on it,” she announced, squinting at the box of tampons with the intensity of someone deciphering hieroglyphics.
God forbid the pharmacy updated its system from 1972 to include a UPC scanner.
“I’ll need to get a price check.” Before I could stop her, she grabbed the ancient beige microphone, tapped it three times with a crimson talon, and bellowed as if addressing a stadium: “JIMMY! PRICE CHECK ON TAMPONS. FORTY PACK. SUPER ABSORBENCY. THE BLUE BOX WITH THE LADY DOING YOGA ON IT.” I swear I heard someone bust out laughing, probably Jake.
Jimmy came up with the price, and I threw my money at her. Without waiting for my change or the receipt, I gathered my purchases up and made a beeline for the door.