Chapter 5 #2
"How's this one?"
Sadie looks over.
Our hands brush when she takes it.
It is nothing. A half second. Barely contact. Still, she stills. So, do I.
Then Jillie says, "That's good bread behavior," and the moment breaks clean in two.
Thank goodness for children.
Then again, children are a menace.
We move to coffee next, which is a mistake because Mrs. Bellamy has apparently multiplied. There are now three women near the end of the aisle pretending to examine tea.
None of them are examining tea.
Sadie slows. "Absolutely not," she mutters.
"What?"
"This aisle has witnesses."
"Most aisles have witnesses. That's how stores work."
"Not like that."
She's right. Mrs. Bellamy is holding chamomile like surveillance equipment.
Jillie skips ahead anyway. "Mom always buys that one."
She points immediately toward a dark roast bag on the middle shelf.
Dark Roast Reserve.
I glance over.
"I know."
The words leave my mouth before I think about them.
Silence. Complete silence. Somewhere behind us, a shopping cart stops rolling.
I look up. Three women are staring. One of them is Mrs. Bellamy. Terrific. Half of Briar
Cove will know I buy Sadie's coffee before I make it to the checkout.
Sadie closes her eyes.
"Colby."
"What?"
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
Jillie looks between us. "Why is everyone being weird?"
Mrs. Bellamy presses a hand dramatically against her chest.
"Oh, they're not weird, sweetheart."
Her smile grows.
"They're domestic."
Sadie's eyes fly open.
"We are grocery shopping."
"Together," Mrs. Bellamy says.
"Accidentally."
"Many great love stories begin by accident."
"This is not a love story."
The second she says it, something in the aisle shifts.
Not dramatically. Not enough for anyone else to notice maybe. But I do.
Because Sadie says it like she is reminding herself.
Not them.
Not me.
Herself.
I should probably help her. I should say something casual. Something clean. Something that puts the fake back where it belongs.
Instead, I pick up the Dark Roast Reserve and place it in the cart.
"Good choice."
Sadie turns to me slowly.
"You are not helping."
"I never claimed to be good at this."
"At shopping?"
"At being normal."
That stops her.
Only for a second. But long enough.
Her expression softens in a way I feel somewhere behind my ribs.
Then Jillie pipes up.
"It's okay. Mommy isn't normal before coffee either."
Sadie points at her. "You are losing marshmallow penguins."
"I withdraw the comment."
Mrs. Bellamy sighs happily.
"Such a lovely little family argument."
Sadie makes a sound that might be a prayer for patience.
I decide it is time to move before anyone starts discussing flowers.
By the time we reach checkout, the cart looks like three separate households fought and nobody won.
Sadie's practical groceries fill most of it. Jillie's marshmallow penguins sit wedged near the top. My coffee, eggs, and a loaf of bread I am no longer allowed to touch are tucked in the corner.
Somehow, during the chaos, my sad little errand merged into theirs.
No one discusses this.
Everyone in line notices. Especially the cashier. Her name tag says Margo. Her expression says she has been waiting her entire life for this moment.
"Find everything okay?" she asks.
"Yes," Sadie says quickly.
"Eventually," I add.
Sadie shoots me with a warning look.
Jillie climbs onto the little bagging platform before Sadie catches her by the coat.
"Feet on the floor."
"I'm helping."
"You are violating several safety policies."
Margo scans the cereal. Then the bread. Then the coffee. Then she pauses and looks at Sadie, then at me. Then at Jillie.
Here it comes.
I can feel it.
I have taken slap shots to the ribs with less dread.
Margo smiles.
"So," she says brightly, "when's the wedding?"
Sadie goes perfectly still. I choke on absolutely nothing. Jillie gasps. "There's a wedding?"
"No," Sadie says.
At the exact same time I say, "No."
Jillie beams.
"You said it together again."
The woman behind us in line whispers, "Adorable."
Sadie's face turns red.
Not pink.
Red.
Margo looks delighted.
"I only meant, you know, eventually."
"There is no eventually," Sadie says.
It should not sting. It does. Which is absurd because she is right. There is no eventually.
There is an agreement.
One month.
Public appearances only.
No fake promises.
No confusing Jillie.
No emotional attachment.
I remember every rule.
Unfortunately, my chest does not seem interested in following them.
Margo keeps scanning.
"Well, you make a cute family."
Sadie opens her mouth.
Then closes it.
I watch the fight move across her face.
Correct them.
Protect Jillie.
Protect herself.
But Jillie is watching too, wide-eyed and uncertain now, like she is trying to figure out whether family is something adults can laugh about or something that disappears if you say it wrong.
Sadie sees it. Her expression changes. She exhales.
Then she laughs, softly at first, almost unwillingly, but real.
Not fake, not forced, and real enough that everyone around us quiets for half a second.
"Margo," Sadie says, still smiling despite herself, "please scan the cereal before this gets worse."
Margo grins.
"Yes, ma'am."
The tension breaks. Jillie giggles. I breathe again.
And Sadie looks at me for one second across the cart.
Just one.
But in that second, she is not guarded, not braced, not waiting for me to fail.
She is simply there, warm and amused.
Beautiful in a grocery store checkout line with a box of marshmallow cereal sliding toward the bagging area.
I have had endorsement deals, private flights, hotel suites, playoff crowds chanting my name.
None of it has ever felt as dangerous as wanting to stay in this ordinary moment a little longer.
Outside, snow falls in light, lazy flakes over the parking lot.
I insist on carrying the grocery bags.
Sadie insists I do not need to.
Jillie announces that assistant sprinkle managers should carry heavy things because it builds character.
So, I carry the bags, all of them because apparently, I have no survival instincts.
We cross the slushy lot together. Sadie walks beside me, keys in one hand, Jillie's mittened hand in the other. The air smells like snow, cold asphalt, and pine from the wreaths hanging on the store windows.
For a few seconds, nobody says anything. No cameras. No town commentary. No Mrs. Bellamy appearing from behind a shrub, though I do check once.
Just us.
Sadie's car is parked near the end of the row. I load the bags into her trunk while Jillie supervises from the bumper.
"Careful with the cereal," she says.
"Wouldn't dream of disrespecting the penguins."
Sadie smiles down at the keys in her hand. "Thank you."
"For carrying groceries?"
"For surviving Peterson's Market."
"Barely."
Her smile deepens. I want to earn that smile again. The thought lands before I can stop it.
Jillie climbs into the back seat, still talking about cereal law, tiny chairs, and whether I should wear a tie to the concert tomorrow night.
I close the trunk.
Sadie turns toward me, and for a moment, the space between us is quiet.
Not awkward. Not simple either.
"You really don't have to come tomorrow," she says softly. "To the concert. I know Jillie put you on the spot."
"She didn't."
Sadie's eyes search mine.
"Colby."
There is warning in my name. And worry. And something that feels too much like hope.
I should make it easy for her. I should step back. I should remind both of us that this is temporary.
Instead, I say, "I want to come."
Her breath catches just slightly.
Inside the car, Jillie presses her face to the window and fogs the glass.
Then she draws a heart with one mittened finger.
Sadie sees it.
So do I.
Neither of us comments, because what exactly is there to say?
That none of this is real?
That all of it is beginning to feel real in places it absolutely should not?
Sadie tucks a loose piece of hair behind her ear.
"Then we'll save you a tiny chair."
I smile.
"Big honor."
"Very big."
The echo of Jillie's words from the bakery hits both of us at the same time.
Sadie looks away first, but she is smiling when she does.
I step back as she gets into the car. Jillie waves wildly through the window. I wave back like an idiot standing in a snowy grocery store parking lot holding nothing but the strange, terrifying feeling that I have just completed the most ordinary errand of my adult life.
And maybe the best one.
Sadie pulls out carefully, tires crunching over salted snow.
I stand there until her taillights disappear onto Main Street.
Then I look down at my empty hands.
I came here for coffee, eggs, and bread.
Somehow, I leave with none of those things.
Because they’re all in Sadie's trunk.
I should go back inside and buy replacements.
Instead, I walk to my truck thinking about a little girl drawing hearts on fogged glass, a baker laughing in the checkout line, a grocery cart full of ordinary things, and the ridiculous, impossible thought that follows me all the way home.
For a few minutes in Peterson's Market, we didn't look like we were in a fake relationship.
We looked like we belonged together.
And all the way home, I can't stop thinking about how easily the three of us fit into the same ordinary afternoon.