Chapter Four
The Grocery Store
Quinn
There’s something oddly peaceful about grocery stores early in the evening.
The fluorescent lights hum softly overhead, carts rattle along tile floors, and somewhere near the produce section someone is always arguing about the price of tomatoes. It’s ordinary. Predictable. Comforting.
I push my cart down the baking aisle, scanning the shelves for brown sugar while mentally running through the list on my phone.
Flour. Eggs. Butter. Vanilla extract. More chocolate chips because apparently the entire town of Franklinton has developed a sudden addiction to my cupcakes. Which ... honestly? I’m not complaining.
Baking is one of the few things in life that always makes sense to me. You follow the recipe, measure the ingredients, and something good comes out of it every single time.
People? Not so simple.
I grab a bag of brown sugar and drop it into my cart with a small sigh. My brain keeps replaying dinner from last night like an annoying little highlight reel. The way Emette criticized my hair, my clothes, my friends, even the tattoo shop.
I try to tell myself he didn’t mean it the way it sounded. That he was just having a bad day. That relationships require compromise.
But the truth is ... it still hurt.
I round the corner into the cereal aisle, trying to shake off the lingering irritation. Franklinton’s grocery store isn’t exactly massive, but it has everything you need if you’re willing to deal with slightly squeaky cart wheels and a freezer section that occasionally makes suspicious noises.
I toss a box of granola into my cart and start toward the dairy section.
Halfway there, I hear a familiar voice behind me. “Quinn?”
I turn and find Damien Grey standing at the end of the aisle holding a basket with exactly three items in it. Milk, eggs, and what looks suspiciously like a frozen pizza.
My lips curve into an automatic smile. “Hey.”
He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, that quiet little gesture I’ve noticed he does when he’s slightly uncomfortable. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“It’s a grocery store,” I say. “People tend to show up here when they need food.”
His mouth twitches. “Fair point.”
I glance at his basket. “Is that your dinner?”
“Emergency dinner,” he says.
“What’s the emergency?”
“I’m running out of groceries,” he says with a shrug.
I laugh softly. Damien always has this dry sense of humor that sneaks up on you. It’s one of the things I like about him.
He shifts his weight slightly, looking a little unsure of what to do with his hands.
“So ... baking supplies?” he asks, nodding toward my cart.
“Cupcakes.”
“Again?”
“You say that like you’re complaining.”
“I’m not complaining,” he says quickly. “Just impressed.”
“Well, you guys keep eating them.”
“Occupational hazard of being friends with a baker.”
I grin and for a moment we stand there in comfortable silence. And it really is comfortable. Talking to Damien always feels easy. No pressure and no expectations. Just ... easy.
“So,” he says after a second. “How’ve you been?”
I open my mouth to answer and that’s when Emette’s voice cuts through the aisle like a knife. “There you are.”
The easy warmth of the moment disappears instantly, and I turn toward the sound of my boyfriend’s voice. Emette walks down the aisle with his usual confident stride, car keys spinning around his finger like he’s auditioning for a car commercial.
He stops beside my cart and glances at Damien. “Oh.”
The single word is flat. Dismissive.
“Hey,” Damien says calmly.
Emette nods once in acknowledgment before turning his attention back to me. “Ready?”
I blink. “Ready for what?”
He gestures vaguely toward the front of the store. “To leave.”
“I’m not done shopping.”
“You’ve been here twenty minutes.” He looks at me like I am crazy for needing more time.
“I still have things to get.”
His jaw tightens slightly. “You can come back later.”
I stare at him. “I’m already here.”
“And I’m ready to go.”
The irritation creeping into my chest makes my voice sharper than usual. “Well, I’m not.”
For a moment the air between us feels heavy, like a thunderstorm building on the horizon. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Damien subtly step back, clearly trying not to get caught in the middle of whatever this is.
Smart man.
Emette sighs dramatically. “Fine.”
He grabs the handle of my cart and starts pushing it toward the front of the store and I grab it back. “Emette.”
“What?” His voice is also laced with irritation.
“I’m not finished.”
“You don’t need all this stuff anyway.”
I glance down at my cart. Flour. Sugar. Eggs. Butter. Basic baking ingredients.
“How exactly do you suggest I make cupcakes without flour?” I ask.
“You don’t need to make cupcakes.” The words hit harder than they should.
“People like them.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Those tattoo guys.”
There’s that tone again. Like House of Ink is something dirty. Something beneath him.
“They’re my friends.”
“They’re losers with needles.”
I feel Damien stiffen beside me and something inside my chest snaps. “That’s not fair.”
Emette shrugs. “Just telling the truth.”
I shake my head. “You don’t even know them.”
“I know the type.”
My cheeks burn. “Damien isn’t like that.”
Emette glances at him again, this time with open disdain. “The accountant?”
“Yes.”
He snorts. “Please.”
The sound is small but sharp enough to make my stomach twist. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.
“It means,” he says slowly, “you’re hanging around a bunch of guys who peaked in high school.”
The irony of that statement is so overwhelming I almost laugh. Instead, I grip the cart handle tighter. “They run a successful business.”
“It’s a tattoo shop.”
“Your point?”
“My point,” he says, voice rising slightly, “is that you’re smarter than this.”
I stare at him. “Smarter than what?”
“Hanging out with people like that.”
People like that. Something cold settles in my chest. “They’re good people.”
“Yeah?” he says. “Then why does the whole town think that place is trashy?”
“That’s not true,” I reply honestly. I know lots of people that love the parlor and the people who work there.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
I glance toward Damien. He’s standing there quietly, expression neutral. But his jaw is tight and suddenly I hate that he’s hearing this.
“Emette,” I say quietly. “Stop.”
“What?”
“You’re being rude,” I hiss.
“I’m being honest.”
“No,” I say, voice trembling slightly. “You’re being mean.”
He rolls his eyes. “Oh, my God, Quinn.”
“What?”
“You’re acting like a child.”
My heart stutters painfully. “I’m defending my friends.”
“You’re embarrassing yourself.”
That one lands like a punch and for a moment I can’t even speak. The grocery store suddenly feels too bright, too loud, and too full of people who might be listening.
Emette shakes his head like he’s dealing with something incredibly inconvenient.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go.”
“I’m not done.”
He exhales sharply. “Jesus, Quinn.”
The name hits my ears like a warning bell. Because when Emette starts using that tone things usually get worse.
“I just want to finish shopping,” I say quietly.
“Why?”
“Because I do.”
He looks at my cart again. Flour. Sugar. Chocolate chips.
And suddenly his mouth twists into something ugly. “You really think those cupcakes make you special?”
My chest tightens. “What?”
“You bake and suddenly everyone treats you like you’re amazing.”
I stare at him, confused. “They like them.”
“They like the attention,” he snaps.
I blink. “That’s not true.”
“Please,” he scoffs. “You’re not exactly a genius, Quinn.”
The words hang in the air for a second, long enough for my brain to fully process them.
My throat tightens. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
My heart starts pounding. “You think I’m stupid?”
“I think you don’t think things through,” he says coldly. “Like hanging around that tattoo shop all the time.”
My vision blurs slightly. “Emette...”
He throws his hands in the air. “You know what? Forget it.” He turns toward the front of the store. “I’m not dealing with this tonight.” And then he walks away.
Just like that. Leaving me standing in the middle of the cereal aisle with a half-full cart and about a hundred pairs of curious eyes pretending not to stare.
The humiliation burns hot in my chest and for a second I consider abandoning the cart and running out of the store. But then Damien’s voice breaks through the silence.
“Hey.”
Soft and careful, like he’s approaching a wounded animal.
I blink rapidly, trying to keep the tears from spilling over. “I’m fine,” I say automatically.
Which is the biggest lie I’ve told all day.
Damien steps closer, his expression calm but his eyes sharp. “You shouldn’t let him talk to you like that.”
I swallow hard. “It’s not a big deal.”
His eyebrows lift slightly. “He called you stupid in a grocery store.”
I stare at the floor. “When you say it like that...”
“It sounds exactly as bad as it is.”
I laugh weakly. “Yeah.” The cart wheels squeak slightly as I shift my weight. “I should probably finish shopping.”
Damien reaches for the handle. “I’ll help.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
But he doesn’t let go. And for some reason, standing there in the fluorescent lights of Franklinton’s only grocery store with Damien Grey quietly pushing my cart beside me, I suddenly feel a little less alone.