6. Bethany
Chapter six
Bethany
I'm standing in front of the freezer at the grocery store, seriously weighing whether I can press a bag of frozen peas to my forehead right here.
I run today through the disaster archive in my head. Today was worse than the antler-incident. Not quite sink-flood bad. But climbing.
The freezer case hums beside me, low and steady. A box of my favorite cold cereal sits on a corner display just ahead.
I consider whether a bowl of cereal counts as a balanced dinner if I slice a banana on top. Verdict: balanced meals are overrated. Cereal is dinner.
The box lands beside a bag of frozen peas, and the cart’s front wheel squeaks in protest.
I pretend not to hear it.
My phone buzzes in my hoodie pocket.
I do not look.
I do not need to.
Someone has probably discovered another “emergency,” a word people use when they want me to make their problem mine.
Whatever it is can wait until I get my groceries home.
Ten minutes.
The world can survive without me for ten minutes.
I add a chocolate bar to the cart and mentally file it beneath Essentials.
The overhead lights buzz with aggressive cheerfulness.
Too bright. Too clean. Too determined to expose every exhausted decision I make beneath them.
No mercy anywhere.
I glance down at my haul.
Cereal. Peas. Chocolate. One sad lime rolling around the bottom of the cart like it took a wrong turn.
I silently apologize to any functioning adult who might witness this.
This is the problem with being good in a crisis. People start assuming you do not have crises of your own.
Or that, if you do, you can handle them easily.
I give up and hold the peas to my forehead. Cold seeps into my skin.
My eyes close. Bliss.
Near the produce, there's a guy in a plain gray hoodie holding two bananas.
It takes me a second glance to realize the guy is Timothy.
Which makes more sense after I spot Shane two aisles over, comparing protein bars.
Timothy rotates one banana, inspecting the underside.
The produce mister hisses on overhead. He doesn't flinch. Fully committed to his banana audit.
“Careful,” I say. “That one looks dangerous.”
He glances up, surprised and pleased.
“This one’s overripe.” He lifts the first banana for my inspection, then the second. “But this one has potential.”
"Wow." I nod slowly. "Do you scout produce professionally, or is this just a hobby?"
He almost smiles. And I hate that it's a good almost-smile. It shows up around his eyes and one corner of his mouth.
I have made the completely reasonable decision not to be affected by Timothy’s almost-smiles.
It is an excellent decision, but harder in practice.
His gaze drops to my forehead, where I am, in fact, still holding a bag of frozen peas.
The amusement fades, replaced by quiet concern.
"You okay?" he asks.
"Cold therapy," I say, tapping the bag. "Very trendy. It's the newest thing."
He doesn't laugh. He just watches me.
"Rough day," I admit.
The words feel strangely vulnerable for something so ordinary. I lower the peas into the cart.
He nods once.
Neither of us suggests walking together.
It simply happens.
Timothy turns toward the next aisle, and I move with him as though that was always the plan.
Or maybe he walks and I drift beside him, too tired to remember I am supposed to maintain a safe emotional distance.
He glances into my pitiful cart.
“That dinner?” he asks.
“Don't judge,” I say.
He almost smiles again, which is rude because I have already established a firm internal policy regarding those.
Then he reaches toward the warmer and picks up a rotisserie chicken.
Before I understand what he is doing, he settles it gently into the top of my cart.
“You should get some protein.”
I stare at the chicken.
It rattles me, which is embarrassing because chicken is not romantic.
It is not flowers or poetry or anything remotely suitable for a confetti-filled montage.
But he looked at my cart and saw what I was trying to hide.
The exhaustion.
The empty refrigerator waiting at home.
The fact that cereal and chocolate were the full extent of tonight’s survival plan.
He noticed.
“Careful,” I say, reaching for breezy. “Jenna’s going to hear about this and start a wedding spreadsheet.”
His hand pauses mid-reach toward the shelf.
"She's…" he starts.
I feel a small flare of triumph at making him stumble.
"She's always been protective of you," he says finally, and his voice drops half a register on the last word.
My hand tightens on the cart handle.
The fluorescent lights buzz on, indifferent, while something old and tender surfaces right there between the chicken and the cereal.
Aisle four is a terrible place for an emotional crisis.
I clear my throat and grab the nearest object, a bag of chips, purely so my hands have a job. "Anyway. If Jenna asks, tell her we ran into each other at the grocery store and nothing else."
My laugh comes out thinner than I planned. A little too bright for what just happened.
I busy myself reading the ingredients on the chip bag.
“Brenton,” Shane calls from the end of the aisle. “You almost done?”
Timothy looks over his shoulder. “Coming.”
Shane’s gaze flicks to me, then to my cart, then to Timothy standing beside it.
“Bethany,” he says.
“Shane.”
Shane looks at Timothy. “I’ll be at checkout.”
Shane disappears toward checkout.
“Night, Bethany,” Timothy says.
“Night.”
Then he follows Shane, hands in his hoodie pocket, leaving the chicken in my cart.
I finish my shopping. The register beeps, steady and mundane.
Outside, the cold slaps my face and clears some of the fog in my brain.
I get in my truck and set the peas on the passenger seat like they deserve a seat belt.
The rotisserie chicken sits in the grocery bag at my feet, warm and ridiculous and impossible to ignore.
Nothing is going on between me and Timothy.
Obviously.
Nothing is a very practical thing to have going on.
Nothing does not complicate friendships or employment opportunities. It doesn't make Jenna smug or turn a grocery-store chicken into more than a simple dinner.
I grip the steering wheel and repeat the rules that have kept my life uncomplicated.
Be useful.
Be easy.
Need nothing.