Chapter Thirty-Two
COFFEE, DOG FOOD, AND DANGEROUS FEELINGS
Andi
Ionly came in for dog food and coffee.
That’s it. Two things. Five minutes, max.
But now I’m in the cereal aisle, parked in front of a wall of boxes as if I’ve forgotten how food works. I’m holding a bag of Beef’s kibble in one arm and a can of cold brew in the other, and somewhere between Frosted Flakes and Cinnamon Life, my brain just… left.
Last week, I was here with Cole. We shopped, flirted, and drove home like a normal couple.
He carried my groceries inside with one arm like it was nothing.
Casually reached for my keys, unlocked the door, and set everything down before I even had the chance to dig for the bag of frozen peas that was burning through my fingers.
Then he kissed me. Right there, next to a carton of eggs and a bag of baby carrots, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
No build-up. No hesitation. Just leaned in and kissed me like he’d done it a hundred times before.
And now I’m standing here, completely useless, smiling at a shelf of cereal like I’m being personally romanced by Tony the Tiger.
I blink, snap out of it, and shake my head as if I’m trying to clear a fog.
I’m that girl now.
A quiet voice pulls me from my daze.
“You thinking about someone sweet, or are the Lucky Charms just hitting differently today?”
I turn to see an older woman with silver hair and a denim jacket pushing a cart beside me. She has a half-smirk and kind eyes, like she’s been catching people in grocery store love comas for years.
I laugh, my cheeks burning. “Uh… guilty.”
She winks. “Don’t worry. That look doesn’t go away, honey. Enjoy it.”
She pats my arm like a co-conspirator and rolls on down the aisle.
I stare after her for a beat, then look back at the cereal as if it might offer answers.
Maybe this is what it feels like.
Not fireworks. Not dramatic declarations. Just this weird, unexpected lightness. Smiling at nothing. Getting teased by strangers. Feeling like something inside me has shifted without my permission.
I grab a box of Honey Nut Cheerios, toss it in the basket, and head for checkout before I start doodling his name in the condensation on the freezer doors.
Sheesh.
As I unload my basket onto the conveyor belt, my brain latches onto something. Maybe this is what my parents felt. The easy happiness. The type that lives in the quiet moments—unloading groceries, making small talk, touching without thinking.
The quiet before everything turns. I wonder if there was a moment, right before it all went sideways, when they looked at each other and thought, yeah... this is it. We’re safe.
I exhale and nod a greeting at the checkout clerk.
I know better than anyone how something good can vanish before you get the chance to hold onto it.
And it’s possibly the most terrifying thought of all.
I pop the trunk of Shay’s car and hoist a crate of boxed hair dye into my arms, trying not to let it crush me.
“Why do you order in bulk like you’re preparing for the apocalypse?” I call over my shoulder.
Shay leans in the doorway of the salon, chewing gum and doing absolutely zero heavy lifting. “Because unlike some people, I plan ahead. And also, I was hoping your tiny goblin body would carry everything inside for me.”
“You’re a problem.”
“I’m a visionary.”
I nudge the door open with my hip and shuffle inside, the crate thudding on the nearest counter. It’s warm in here, the familiar smell of coconut shampoo and the faint scent of chemicals clinging to the air. It’s comforting in its weird way.
Shay’s already sorting boxes into piles—platinum blondes, chestnuts, reds.
I fall into step beside her, popping lids and checking expiration dates.
We work in an easy rhythm. We’ve done this a hundred times before, usually with music blasting and both of us complaining about exes, landlords, or the price of iced coffee.
But today I’m quiet. Distracted.
And apparently, not subtle about it.
“You’re awfully glowy for someone elbow-deep in boxes of developer,” Shay says after a minute, side-eyeing me.
“I’m not glowy.”
“You are. You’ve got that dazed, post-sex, maybe-I-like-him glow. It’s disgusting. I’m filing a formal complaint.”
I snort, but my ears go hot.
“I’m just… thinking.”
“Uh-huh. Thinking about how a certain paramedic could probably carry two crates of hair dye at once? Maybe shirtless?”
I throw an empty box at her head. “Shut up.”
She grins, completely unfazed. “No, seriously. What’s going on with you? You’re like… softer. Less fighty.”
I pretend to be very interested in a row of auburn tubes. “I met his mom.”
Shay’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh shit. That’s big.”
“I didn’t know it was going to happen. But she made us pasta, and she was… warm. Sweet.”
“And?”
“And he met Jack.”
Her jaw drops. “Wait—”
“I know. Long story. It was awkward and weird, and Jack did that silent glare thing like he was trying to set Cole on fire with his mind, but… it happened.”
“How did it happen? Why did it happen?” She looks as confused as I felt at the time.
“In the strangest coincidence ever, Jack and Kate are dating.”
Shay’s expression melts. “Okay, that’s adorable.”
I nod. It kind of is. Jack deserves someone good in his life. Someone who makes him smile the way Kate does.
“And you survived?” she asks.
“Barely. But yeah. Cole is…” I shrug, trying to play it cool even though my chest feels like someone’s squeezing it. “He’s just… good. With me. For me.”
The scary part? I actually believe it. Like when he looks at me, I’m not a project to fix or a puzzle to solve. I’m just... me. And somehow that’s enough.
Shay bumps my shoulder with hers. “You’re falling for him.”
“I don’t—”
“You so are.”
I sigh, feeling my defenses crumble. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?” She snorts. “Babe, you’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“Oh babe.” She gestures to my face. “That’s the face of someone who’s been emotionally steamrolled by a man who knows exactly what he’s doing inside the bedroom and out of it.”
My stomach does this stupid flutter thing. Because yeah, he does know what he’s doing. With his hands. With his words. With the way he looks at me like I hung the moon when all I did was make a snappy remark.
It’s going so well it terrifies me. Like I’m standing on the edge of something massive, and one wrong step sends me tumbling. My therapist would call it catastrophizing—planning for disaster just because things feel safe.
But still... part of me keeps flinching for impact. It’s hard not to brace for the crash when you’ve lived through the wreckage.
She grins. “Told you you’d fold eventually.”
“I haven’t folded,” I mutter, reaching for another box of dye.
“Oh honey.” She gestures at my face. “That smile says otherwise.”
I try not to grin.
I fail spectacularly.