11. Amanda #2
While Eric came out of his trance, I went into my own. The effect is the same whenever we’re concerned. We leave each other feeling off-kilter. It’s the danger of this forced proximity we’re in.
We’re grocery shopping. He doesn’t really need the food.
His freezer’s stuffed, not that I’d go anywhere near frozen pizza with pineapple—even before I was pregnant.
He’s been doing this, though. Having me meet him places after our workdays finish so I am not left waiting for him, since I refuse to use the key.
Perhaps that’s reason enough to stop this and stay with Val. She’d hate this co-parenting idea.
Eric’s methodical. He always brings a list and goes straight for what he needs. Not today. We’ve also never grocery shopped for a shared space before. I guess this is another opportunity to figure out boundaries and each other.
Eric’s got a large cart, and we’re standing in the cereal and breakfast aisle. He’s rambling about breakfast.
“What kind of cereal do you like?” he asks.
I pretend to study the boxes, but Eric’s our child speech keeps replaying in my head.
The way his voice wavered. Like the two words weren’t a suggestion, but a confession of his deepest desires.
A confession of my deepest forbidden desires.
I take a random box off the shelf, just to have something in my hands, something to do while my brain scrambles.
This excitement tastes offensive, a betrayal of myself.
I remind myself how it felt even worse to squash all the hopes I had harbored for Eric and me three years ago.
“You still like those?” Eric’s voice cuts through my thoughts, making me notice the box I’m holding. Honey bear-shaped cereal. “We used to fight over those when you were tiny. Every Saturday morning I spent at your house.”
I scrunch my nose. “I don’t remember that.”
“You were really little.” He takes the box from me. “You probably don’t remember throwing your bowl at my face when you were two and a half because I finished the box.”
I’m quiet. He’s known me all my life. His mom brought him to the hospital when I was born.
Carried him in one of those toddler carriers.
There’s a picture of him, trying to squish my cheeks over his mom’s shoulders.
They were both smiling, and I was screaming bloody murder.
He would have been just over two. He was itching to touch me before he could speak.
“That does sound like me,” I mumble.
“Do you still like these?” He shakes the box gently, its contents rattling against the cardboard.
I shrug. “Actually, I do. But I haven’t had them in forever.
We don’t have to get them.” I move away and grab the blue box of a much healthier cereal that I eat regularly.
By the time I turn to throw that in the cart, Eric has dropped the bear cereal and a similarly boring brand of raisin bran into the cart as well.
I fixate my gaze on the box of teddy grahams and then stare at him.
“Are we going to buy three kinds of cereal every week?”
It’s his turn to shrug now. “We’re playing it by ear, remember?”
I nod and nudge the cart forward, but something clenches in my stomach.
Not nausea—just… familiarity. A tightening that wakes something up deep within.
Eric’s questions are real. They’re not just pantomime to make us look like something we’re not.
If anything, he’s always nudging the door open to what we could have been.
I reach for a box of granola bars. The kind I’ve trained myself to grab—a knockoff of a big brand. Sensible. A little bland. Affordable.
As I toss them into the cart, my eyes flick to the yogurt-covered ones. The ones I actually like. They are two boxes for seven if I go with the store brand. Daray hated them.
A different store. A different cart. Daray was next to me, one hand on his phone, the other steering the cart like it was a punishment he was enduring.
“Let’s get these yogurt bars I like,” I said, holding up the box. “They’re off-brand, but I’ve been craving them lately. And they’re two for seven.”
He glanced up. “You don’t need that processed crap. We already have cereal at home.”
“Yeah, but it’s yours,” I said. We hadn’t been living together long. I wasn’t defensive yet—just stating a fact. “I don’t really like shredded wheat.”
“You already got those fancy yogurts. This is better for you,” he said, tone flat. Dismissive. Already back on his phone.
I stared at the box of granola bars for a second longer, then put it back.
Now, in front of me, Eric’s crouched in the snack aisle, studiously comparing.
I pick up both boxes of granola bars—the fruit ones and the yogurt ones—and weigh them in my hands.
I used to think I was just bad at decisions.
Always overthinking. Always second-guessing.
But maybe I just got used to wanting less.
Eric joins me, holding up two different crackers in a silent question.
I use one of the boxes I’m holding to point at the poppyseed ones.
He nods, then gestures at the yogurt bars with the crackers I’d just passed over.
A wordless vote. There’s a silent understanding of compromise between us.
Effortless. No resistance. But my body’s buzzing, like I’ve been holding something in too long.
Eric maneuvers the cart around the store, aisle by aisle.
Sometimes, he doesn’t ask for input. He just throws something in there.
I am empowered to do the same. There are a couple of repeated unnecessary things: his chicory coffee, my hazelnut, his oat milk, my 2%, and sugar-free creamer. Playing it by ear.
We make it around the back of the store to the meat section. He slows near the chicken area. His gaze is examining the drumsticks, comparing the price per pound.