12. The Grocery Store
twelve
The Grocery Store
Nora
"Ishould have gotten out of the house sooner."
I whisper the words to myself as I push the squealing metal cart down the center aisle of King's Grocery.
The tight knot that has been sitting at the base of my throat for days has eased since I stepped a foot in the grocery store.
There is a specific, undeniable charm to Moonrise that I forgot existed while I was suffocating in Houston.
Here, the fluorescent lights buzz with a lazy hum, the linoleum floors are scuffed yellow, and the cashier at the front is currently engaged in a ten-minute conversation with a customer about the humidity.
Nobody is rushing. Nobody is looking at their watches.
I pull Gran Iris's handwritten list from my cardigan pocket, running my thumb over the elegant ink.
Whole milk. Unbleached flour. Yellow onions. Chicory coffee.
I tick off the unbleached flour, the yellow onions, and the chicory coffee. There is a beautiful, slow-motion charm to this place that's acting as a balm for my frayed nerves. In Houston, the supermarkets are cold, sterile caverns of glass and self-checkout kiosks where nobody looks you in the eye.
My purse vibrates against my hip just then, and I reach into my pocket, a soft smile touching my lips. I assume it's Gran Iris, undoubtedly texting me to add a forgotten stick of butter or a specific brand of vanilla extract to the list.
I pull the device out and tap the screen, and the smile falls off my face immediately.
It isn't Gran. An unknown number glares back at me, illuminating the dim aisle with a stark, blue light.
I've given you three days to think about it. I plan to stop taking the easy way soon.
Stanley.
My thumb hovers over the screen, trembling so hard I can barely read the pixelated letters. I immediately shove the phone deep back into my pocket as if the device itself is burning me.
My heart kicks into a frantic, erratic sprint against my ribs as I grip the red plastic handle of the shopping cart, my knuckles turning bone-white.
My fingers tremble so violently I almost drop the phone into the display of condensed milk as cold sweat pools at the small of my back. The text is a paradox of data; good news and bad news wrapped in a single, lethal thread.
It means he still thinks the land belongs to us; he hasn't found a legal loophole to seize the title yet. But the bad news is that the easy way might be over sooner than I think, and the pressure is about to escalate. Stanley will start exploiting the weak spots.
I force my hands onto the plastic handle of the shopping cart, pushing it blindly into the next aisle. The cereal aisle.
"Keep moving," I mutter to myself, my voice shaking. "Just get the groceries. Keep moving."
I push the cart blindly around the endcap, turning into the cereal aisle. The brightly colored cardboard boxes blur together into a meaningless streak of neon reds and blues.
I try to focus on finding Gran's specific brand of rolled oats and shake the lingering phantom of the text when a voice shatters the quiet of the aisle.
"Mama, look what I made."
I freeze, and the squeaky wheel of my cart halts mid-turn.
I turn around slowly, my boots heavy on the linoleum. Standing no more than ten feet away is a little girl. She can't be more than six years old. She is wearing a pair of faded denim overalls, her bright, tightly curled hair catching the harsh overhead light like a halo of spun copper.
She is holding up a piece of wrinkled construction paper, her small face lit up with an enormous, fierce pride. My feet move before my brain can stop them, and I find myself drifting half a step closer.
My brain automatically begins to add and subtract as I stare at her. It is an involuntary, mechanical calculation that my brain executes every single time I see a child.
Six years.
She would have been six years and two months old now.
Clara would have been almost at the same height.
The little girl laughs at something her mother says, the sound high and pure and utterly unbroken.
Seeing the little girl laugh makes the pain I thought I had under control detonate.
The little girl with the curls tilts her head back, laughing as her mother praises the drawing. The sound of that laugh is a razor blade slicing straight through the fragile, calloused scar tissue I have spent years building over my heart.
The grief climbs out of the dark and wraps its claws around my windpipe. The aisle begins to tilt. The colorful boxes of cereal blur into a sickening streak of neon reds and blues. I can't breathe. It suddenly feels as if all the oxygen has been sucked out of the grocery store.
I stagger backward, my heel catching awkwardly on the linoleum.
I lose my balance, slamming hard into a freestanding cardboard display of granola bars. The flimsy structure groans and gives way. Dozens of boxes cascade onto the floor, scattering across the aisle with a series of sharp, plastic clatters.
The noise pulls the mother's attention instantly. She turns away from her daughter, her eyes going wide.
"Oh my goodness," the woman says, stepping forward, her hands fluttering in alarm. "Are you okay, miss?"
I try to smile. I stretch my lips, trying to form the polite reassurance that I am fine, that I just tripped, but my facial muscles refuse to cooperate. The smile contorts into a trembling grimace.
"Miss?" the woman presses, her face showing concern. "You're completely pale. Should I call someone?"
I can't bring myself to speak. My throat is locked, lined with broken glass. I shake my head, backing away from the scattered boxes.
The little girl steps around the fallen display and looks up at me with massive, innocent blue eyes. She reaches out with her small, sticky hand, and before I can pull away, she wraps her fingers innocently around mine.
"Breathe," the little girl says, puffing her cheeks out in an exaggerated exhale. "Like this."
I'm not sure if it's seeing the girl up close, realizing how smart and kind she is, or the fact that she's holding my hands. Whatever the reason is, the dam breaks and the tears I've been desperately holding back spill over my lashes in a hot, blinding flood.
A raw, ragged sob tears out of my throat, sounding loud and ugly in the quiet store.
"I'm sorry," I choke out, my voice breaking over the syllables. "I'm so sorry."
I gently, frantically pull my hand free from the child's warm grip. I leave the shopping cart sitting dead in the center of the aisle. I turn on my heel and walk blindly toward the front of the store, the colorful aisles melting into a watery, distorted smear.
I can't bring myself to look at the cashier or the automatic doors. I just put my head down and rush forward, desperate to get to the isolation of my car.
Just when I think I have crossed the threshold, just when the humid air hits my wet face, I run full-force into a wall of solid iron.
The impact knocks the remaining breath straight out of my lungs. I bounce backward, my boots slipping on the concrete, and the world tilts violently out of focus.
But before I can hit the ground, two massive, heavy arms shoot out and clamp around my waist.
I am yanked forward, my face colliding with a broad, immovable chest, and the scent of sharp cedarwood, old engine oil, and the dark musky heat of a man hits me instantly, cutting through the smell of the grocery store.
The heat radiating off his body shocks my system. For a split second, a dangerous, intoxicating chemistry flares through my panic. My hands flatten against his chest automatically, my fingers digging into the rough denim of his cut-off vest.
Beneath my palms, his heart is beating with a steady, heavy rhythm. The safeness in his hold is terrifying. I want to sink into it. I want to let go of the gravity pulling me down and let this giant carry my weight.
I look up, blinking through the thick blur of my tears.
Jax.
He is the absolute last person on earth I wanted to see me like this, but there's nothing I can do about the fact that his blue eyes are wide and scanning my face rapidly.
The hard, impenetrable mask he wore on my porch is entirely gone. He looks horrified. His jaw flexes, his thumbs pressing deeply into the soft wool of my cardigan at my waist.
"Nora?" Jax's voice vibrates against my palms. "Are you okay? What happened?"
His raw concern feels like salt on an open wound.
"I'm fine," I mutter.
I shove against his chest, breaking the contact. The loss of his heat leaves me shivering. I step out of the circle of his arms, sidestepping his massive frame, and break into a run across the gravel parking lot.
"Nora, wait!"
I don't stop or turn around until I reach my old Volvo. I yank the heavy metal door open, throw myself into the driver's seat, and slam the door shut. I hit the lock button so hard my thumb aches.
The isolation of the car finally allows the grief to take over completely. The tears fall freely now, hot and fast, soaking the collar of my shirt. I rest my forehead against the steering wheel, my shoulders shaking as the memory of the little girl's curls flashes behind my eyelids.
After a minute, I force myself to sit up. I wipe my face with the back of my trembling hand and look out the window.
Jax is still standing in front of the automatic doors. He hasn't moved. In his right hand, he is holding the handle of my abandoned green shopping basket.
He is staring directly at my car, and the look on his rugged face, a mixture of deep, protective fury and helpless worry, is entirely too much for me to process.
I turn the key in the ignition. The engine roars to life, and I throw the car into reverse, peeling out of the parking lot and leaving him in the dust.
I zeroed my thoughts, keeping my mind carefully blank, and by the time the gravel of the Beckett driveway crunches beneath my tires, the storm has passed, leaving a hollow, exhausted ache in its wake.
The sun has dipped below the tree line, casting the front of the cottage in deep, indigo shadows as I kill the engine and sit in the silence of the cab.