Chapter 26 Genevieve
Genevieve
“I need to go to the store.”
Lance looks up from where he’s been reading on the couch, Cavall sprawled across his feet.
His eyes narrow.
“The store.”
“Yes. You know, that place where they keep the food? Big building, lots of aisles, fluorescent lighting that makes everyone look slightly ill?”
“Why?”
“Because Art’s coming back tomorrow, and he asked me to cook him dinner. And despite me not being super comfy with our relationship, I refuse to create subpar dishes.” I say it carefully, watching his face. “Welcome-home-from-his-trip kind of thing.”
His eyes flicker—there and gone before I can name it.
“Besides, I miss cooking. Real cooking. Not bartending and microwaving frozen garbage for drunk people.”
“Fine. But I’m coming with you.”
“Obviously. Why else would I have told you?”
Cavall whines as we head for the door, tilting his head in that heartbreakingly hopeful way, and Lance crouches to ruffle his fur.
“Bleib. We’ll be back.”
“Reste,” I say after him.
“Stop trying to teach my dog French.”
I shrug. “Forgive me for thinking he deserves a little romance.”
The drive to Second Circle Market takes fifteen minutes, mostly in silence. It’s not uncomfortable, more like we’ve both gotten used to existing in each other’s space without filling every second with words.
Which is in itself uncomfortable, if I think about it too hard. So I don’t.
“What are you making?” Lance asks as he pulls into the lot.
“Coq au vin.”
His brow furrows. “That chicken thing?”
“That chicken thing,” I repeat, pressing a hand to my chest. “It’s a classic French braise. Chicken, wine, mushrooms, pearl onions. It takes hours, which means the whole house smells incredible, so really you should be thanking me.”
He parks and kills the engine. “How do you know Art’s back?”
“Because he called me this morning. Did he not tell you?”
His jaw shifts. “No.”
That’s the third time Art’s moved without telling Lance. First taking me home from the tavern. Then leaving town. Now coming back. A pattern I file away and don’t comment on, but the way Lance is staring through the windshield tells me he’s filing it, too.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get your ingredients before they close.”
Second Circle Market is one of those family-owned grocery stores that’s been around forever. It’s got wooden floors, handwritten signs, and an actual butcher counter in the back.
I grab a basket and make a beeline for produce, mentally cataloguing what I need. Lance trails behind me like a very large, very grumpy shadow.
“Carrots. Pearl onions. Mushrooms,” I list off.
“Yuck, no mushrooms would be better.”
“They’re cremini, not button, at least.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Button mushrooms are flavorless and rubbery, and they release too much water, which means you can’t get a proper sear.” I inspect the creminis before adding them to the basket. “Button mushrooms are the participation trophy of the fungus world.”
“Remind me never to cook for you.”
“You couldn’t pay me to eat your cooking. I’ve seen you try.”
He makes an offended noise, but when I glance back, there’s amusement playing at the corner of his mouth.
We move through the store in a strange rhythm. I lead, he follows, and occasionally he reaches over my head to grab something from a high shelf without being asked. I pretend I don’t feel him hovering against my back when he does.
I’m comparing bottles of burgundy when a voice cuts through the store.
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t my favorite brother and his new roommate.”
I spin around to find Alex Calloway leaning against an end cap display, grinning like a cat who found the cream. Wavy brown hair artfully disheveled, popped collar under a cashmere sweater.
Lance sighs. “Alex.”
“Don’t sound so excited. You’ll make me blush.” Alex saunters toward us, eyes bouncing between Lance and me. “You know, Aristotle once said the quality of life is determined by its activities. So tell me, what quality of life is this?”
“Grocery shopping,” I say. “Very scandalous.”
Alex clutches his chest. “She speaks! And she’s funny! You’ve served me drinks and I never knew you were funny. Lance, where have you been hiding this one?”
“She’s Art’s girlfriend,” Lance says. “You know that.”
“And yet here she is, shopping for groceries with you.” Alex’s grin widens.
“How’d you even know she was staying with me?”
“If you’d read our group chat, you’d know that obviously it was Jules.
” He shrugs and then leans against the shelves.
“You know, I always found it fascinating how the lines between helping and something more can get so blurry. Proximity breeds familiarity. Familiarity breeds comfort. And comfort…” He waggles his eyebrows.
“Comfort can breed all sorts of things.”
“Alexander James Calloway, if you don’t stop terrorizing innocent shoppers, I will personally ensure your name never appears on another cast list in this state.”
Felicity emerges from the end of the aisle, blond hair swept back in a neat ponytail and a Second Circle Market apron tied around her waist. Her eyes take in the scene—Alex lounging, Lance murderous, me wishing the floor would open up.
“Fee.” Alex beams. “Light of my life. Have you come to rescue me from my brother’s glowering?”
“I’ve come to tell you that if you knock over that cider display one more time, my mom will ban you for life.”
Alex gasps. “She wouldn’t.”
“We’re in the red zone, Alex.” Felicity’s gaze shifts to me. “Hey, Ginny. Finding everything okay?”
“Yeah, just grabbing stuff for dinner. For Art,” I add, because apparently I can’t stop clarifying. “Welcome-home meal.”
“Mmhm.” Her eyes flick to Lance. “And Lance is helping you shop for your boyfriend’s dinner?”
“He drove.”
“From his place,” Alex adds, grinning. “Where they’re both staying.”
“Alex. Shut up,” Lance says.
“I’m merely observing. Making keen insights. Like a detective. Or a philosopher. A detective-philosopher, if you will.”
Lance pinches the bridge of his nose. “Are you done?”
Alex sidles closer to me, lowering his voice. “Tell me, Ginny, what’s it like living with my brother? Full sentences, or does he communicate exclusively in grunts and long exasperated sighs?”
I laugh. “Mostly grunts. Though occasionally I get a full syllable if I’m lucky.”
Alex’s eyes light up, and Lance’s brow quirks.
“I knew it.” Alex points at Lance triumphantly. “Jules and I have been saying for years you need someone who makes you use your words.”
“Someone who isn’t afraid of him,” Felicity mutters, then seems to catch herself and glances away.
Alex plucks the burgundy from my hand and swaps it for a different bottle. “This one. Less tannin. Your dish will thank you.”
I take it, studying him. Behind the theatrics, there’s something sharper than he lets on. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. Art’s lucky to have someone who cooks for him. He’s not always great at appreciating the people in his corner.”
My chest tightens. What’s he mean by that? Before I can ask, he pivots.
“Tell me something, Genevieve, can I call you Genevieve?”
“No.”
“Fine. Ginny. If you had to describe yourself in a story, what kind would it be?”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Humor me. Are you a comedy? A tragedy? A romance? An epic adventure?”
“I don’t know,” I say slowly.
“A tragedy, then.”
“Is it? I always thought tragedies ended with everyone dead. I’m still standing.”
Alex tilts his head. “Aristotle argued that tragedy isn’t about death. It’s about the fall from grace. The moment when everything changes and can’t be unchanged.” He snaps his fingers.
His eyes flick toward Lance.
Felicity reappears with a white paper package before the silence can settle.
“Got you the good stuff. Dad threw in extra thighs because you have excellent taste.”
“What do I owe you?”
“On the house. Belated welcome-to-our-dysfunctional-town gift.”
“Felicity, we can pay,” Lance says.
She scoffs. “Please stop ruining my friendship arc with your roommate.”
“Thank you,” I say, and my voice comes out thicker than I intended.
Her expression softens. “We should hang out. Me, you, Jules. You going to the golden boy’s anniversary party?”
I look around. “Who’s the golden boy?”
“Paxton,” Lance tells me.
“Oh—yeah. Art’s taking me.”
Felicity shoots a look at Lance. “And you?”
He nods.
“Good. Let’s take you out for a dress beforehand. Give me your number.”
I list it off, and something warm blooms in my chest. It’s been so long since I’ve had girlfriends. Since I’ve had anyone besides Art and now Lance. Rosalie’s there, but she’s got a wall built by the name of Benjamin Voltaire, so we only really talk when we work the same shifts.
This feels nice.
We say our goodbyes. Lance carries my basket to the checkout without asking, and I don’t comment on it, even though it makes something flutter in my chest that I ruthlessly ignore.