Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Cole
If you’d asked me a week ago what my ideal morning looked like, I would’ve said coffee, quiet, and maybe some scrambled eggs. I definitely wouldn’t have said sharing a vinyl booth at the diner with Star while she tried to convince me that green chile made everything better.
Yet there we were.
The Sunrise Diner smelled like grease and old coffee and something vaguely sweet, like pancakes that had lived there so long they’d become part of the furniture. Star sat across from me, elbows on the table, chin propped in her hands, watching me like she was waiting for a verdict.
“You didn’t even take a full bite,” she accused.
“I did,” I said, chewing deliberately. “I’m just… processing.”
She snorted. “You mean you’re dramatic. You club guys are hard to please with food since you had Carnie cooking for you all your lives.”
“I mean,” I said, swallowing, “this is good. It’s just different from what I’m used to.”
She grinned, bright and unapologetic. “That’s because you’re spoiled.”
“Don’t be jealous because I’ve got an aunt who makes kick-ass food,” I teased.
She laughed and nodded. “You are completely correct. I’m so jealous of you getting to eat Carnie’s cooking. I grew up with Mac, who can cook, but she was pretty busy with work. There were many nights of fast food or nuggets.” She pointed at me. “Not burned, though.”
“That’s because Mac knew the difference between bake and broil,” I pointed out.
“Yes,” she laughed. “That makes all the difference in the world.”
We finished breakfast with coffee refills neither of us needed and a shared plate of hash browns that Star drowned in ketchup while I pretended not to judge her. By the time we paid and stepped outside, the morning was warm.
“Can I drive?” Star asked. “It is my car.”
“Negative,” I said as I pulled her keys out of my pocket. I had wanted to take the bike just to have Star pressed up against me, but I knew she wasn’t up for that yet. Besides, grocery shopping on the bike was not ideal with the list that Mac had left for us. “I am your protector and chauffeur.”
She pouted out her bottom lip. “But I’m feeling better today.” She stretched out her arms. “I don’t even feel like I need a nap yet,” she laughed.
I grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the car. “Let’s hope that feeling lasts a little bit longer. Your mom left us one hell of a list.”
I drove the few blocks to the grocery store. As soon as we walked in, Star grabbed a cart and took off down the aisle like she knew exactly where she was going.
I followed behind her, holding the list her mom had stuck on the fridge that morning. It was pretty specific, but there were a few things I knew we were going to struggle with.
“You realize,” I said, “that this list is wildly optimistic.”
Star glanced over her shoulder. “How so?”
“Produce,” I said. “That’s a whole department. Does she want one of everything?”
She laughed and spun the cart around, nearly clipping a display of apples. “Relax. She just means fruit, carrots, and maybe some broccoli. This isn’t a test, Cole. If we don’t get something, we can always come back.”
“That doesn’t make it less intimidating,” I grumbled.
“You’re intimidated by grocery shopping?”
“I’m intimidated by expectations,” I said solemnly. “And I don’t want to have your mom thinking I’m an idiot.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And possibly an idiot if we mess up grocery shopping.”
She didn’t answer that. She just smiled and pushed the cart toward the produce section, and I tried not to read too much into the way she hadn’t denied it.
We moved through the store like it was our own personal obstacle course. She reached for a bag of croutons while I read the list out loud, occasionally questioning the logic of items like “meat (maybe cow?)” and “cheese—whatever’s on sale.”
“Your mom is chaotic,” I said. “Here I thought it was just the ol’ ladies.”
“She calls it flexible.”
“I call it chaotic.”
Star bumped her hip into the cart, grinning. “As if you’re not used to that, Cole.”
I caught her eye. “I just didn’t realize the chaoticness was widespread.”
She laughed again, and I realized, somewhere between the apples and the bread aisle, that this felt easy. Comfortable. Everything with Star felt like that.
We debated cereal longer than necessary. She argued for anything with marshmallows. I argued for anything that didn’t turn milk into technicolor sludge.
“You’re twenty-three going on eighty,” she said.
“And you’re twelve,” I shot back. “With a credit card.”
She gasped. “How dare you?” She tossed a box of neon-colored cereal into the cart anyway. “Just because I eat it doesn’t mean you have to eat it,” she said.
“Is that how that works?”
She winked at me. “Sure it is.”
By the time we hit the cookie aisle, the cart was half full, and my stomach hurt from laughing. The aisle had shelves stacked floor to ceiling with brightly colored promises.
Star slowed, eyes scanning the options. “Okay,” she said, serious now. “This matters.”
I nodded. “Agreed.”
She gestured broadly. “So. Thoughts?”
I leaned against the cart, pretending to consider. “Classic Oreos are fine.”
She made a face. “Fine?”
“They’re dependable.”
“They’re boring.”
I pointed at a package halfway down the shelf. “Golden Oreos.”
Her eyes lit up. “Elite.”
“Finally,” I said. “Something we agree on.”
“They’re superior,” she said firmly. “Better cookie-to-cream ratio. Softer crunch.”
“Plus,” I added, “they don’t leave black crumbs everywhere like you’ve been rolling around in dirt after eating half of the package in the middle of the night.”
She laughed. “Exactly.”
She reached up toward the top shelf where the Double Stuf Golden Oreos sat, just out of reach. She stretched onto her toes, fingers grazing the edge of the package. “I’ve got it,” she said.
“You don’t,” I said, stepping closer.
She reached again, the cart wobbling slightly as she leaned.
And then she didn’t have it.
Her foot slipped just enough that her balance went, and her body tipped backward.
I dropped the list and caught her without thinking. My hands came around her waist as momentum carried her straight into me.
The world narrowed.
She was warm and in my arms. Her hands grabbed at my cut, fingers curling into the fabric as she steadied herself. Her breath hitched, and I felt it like a spark down my spine.
“Cole,” she whispered.
I looked down at her, her face tilted up, eyes wide and dark, lips parted just slightly. We were close enough that I could smell her shampoo, something clean and faintly floral.
Time stretched thin.
“I’m going to kiss you, Star,” I said quietly.
She didn’t speak. She just nodded.
That was all I needed.
I leaned in slowly, giving her time to pull back and to change her mind. She didn’t. Instead, she rose up just a little, meeting me halfway.
Our lips touched, soft at first, a gentle press that felt like a question.
Then she answered it.
She leaned into me, hands sliding up my chest, and the kiss deepened, still sweet but charged now. I tilted my head, fitting against her, and she sighed into my mouth like she’d been holding her breath all morning.
I tightened my arms around her instinctively, careful. The aisle faded away, the shelves, the noise, everything except her.
Someone cleared their throat.
“Excuse me.”
We jumped apart like we’d been caught doing something illegal.
I turned, my heart still pounding, and found myself face-to-face with Mrs. Spangler.
She stood there with her cart, eyebrows raised, lips pursed in polite curiosity. Same perfectly styled hair. Same church cardigan energy she had when I was ten years old and in her Sunday School class.
“Hey, Mrs. Spangler,” I said automatically. “Did you need something?”
She smiled, kind but assessing. “Actually, yes. Could you help me grab something from the top shelf down there?”
“Of course,” I said, already moving. “No problem.”
I walked with her to the end of the aisle, grabbed the box she needed, and handed it down. She thanked me, patted my arm, and wheeled off with a satisfied nod.
I headed back toward Star.
She stood exactly where I’d left her, staring at the Oreos like they’d personally offended her. Her cheeks were pink, and she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear when she noticed me.
I stopped beside her, hands in my pockets. “You good?”
She nodded. “Never better.”
I smiled, just a little. “You wanna do that again?”
She turned her head, looking up at me, eyes bright. “Yeah,” she said. “But maybe not in the cookie aisle?”
I nodded, grin spreading. “Same.”