3 - Avery
Avery
I should’ve known better than to answer my mom’s call, because now I’ve been sitting in the grocery store parking lot for almost half an hour with the engine still running.
My hands are gripped tight around the steering wheel while she launches into yet another story that somehow started with her neighbor and has now circled all the way back to my dad like it always does.
“I’m just saying, Avery, if he had listened to me instead of acting like he knew everything…”
“Mom,” I cut in, glancing at the automatic doors sliding open and closed as people move in and out with carts full of things I don’t feel like buying. “I really don’t need to be in the middle of this today.”
There’s a pause on the other end, just long enough to make me think that maybe, for once, she’s going to let it go.
She doesn’t. She never does.
“I’m not putting you in the middle,” she says, in the same tone she always uses when she absolutely is. “I’m just talking. You’re my daughter. I should be able to talk to you.”
I press my lips together, already feeling that familiar mix of guilt and irritation settling into me. She’s not wrong, not technically, but that doesn’t make it any less exhausting to be the person who hears both sides of an argument that never ends.
My parents have been divorced since I was ten.
Most kids are upset when their parents split, but all I remember is the overwhelming sense of relief.
It was supposed to be the end of the yelling and silent treatments.
A chance to stop walking on eggshells, avoiding the passive-aggressive battle between the two of them.
Divorce was supposed to be better.
Except neither one of them can seem to let it go. Their hatred runs deep enough that I’m still hearing about it over fifteen years later.
“You said the same thing last week,” I remind her, leaning my head back against the headrest. “And the week before that.”
“Well, maybe if he had just–”
“Yeah, well, he didn’t.” My voice comes out sharp, but she doesn’t even notice.
“Did you tell him I was coming to town next month?”
“No, Mom.”
There is literally no reason I would need to tell him this. If I did, he’d immediately plan a trip of his own to come see me to prove he loves me more.
“You should probably tell him. I know he hasn’t visited in a while. It’d be good for him to know that at least one of your parents is keeping an eye on you.”
“I’m not calling him, and I’m definitely not relaying messages. You both are grown adults and can talk to each other.”
She pauses again, heavier this time, and I can picture her expression through the phone, the slight frown and disappointment she won’t say outright but will absolutely make me feel.
“You should consider yourself lucky. You’ve got that hockey player, Damon.”
My skin goes cold.
“I told you I’m not seeing him anymore.”
“Avery. You deserve a nice man like him. You should really try to fix it.”
As if I’m the one who broke it.
I huff out a quiet laugh, staring out at the gray stretch of pavement in front of me.
My knuckles turn white on the steering wheel because it’s been months, and his name still manages to make my stomach turn, as if I haven’t cut that part of my life out and buried it.
“He was a nice boy,” she adds, softer now, almost coaxing. “I always liked him.”
A nice boy.
He did seem that way.
He was the captain of the New York Yeti, well-liked, and the kind of guy who remembered to call my mom on her birthday.
He asked my dad questions about things he didn’t actually care about just to make a good impression.
Damon was the kind of guy who held doors open and said all the right things while making it seem easy.
For a while, it was easy.
At first, it was small things, the kind that felt more like concern than anything else. He’d get quiet when I would go out without him. He’d ask a few too many questions about who I was with and when I’d be home, but it didn’t feel like a problem.
Then he asked me to share my location because it would be easier if he ever needed to pick me up. I remember rolling my eyes and agreeing because I didn’t have anything to hide, and it felt stupid to make it into something bigger than it was.
Except it didn’t stay small.
It turned into calls when I was somewhere he didn’t recognize, his voice tight on the other end of the line while I stood outside of bars or restaurants explaining myself as if I’d done something wrong. He said I owed him that.
I didn’t notice when it stopped feeling normal.
Not until I went to leave one night and couldn’t find my keys anywhere. I tore his entire place apart while he watched from the couch, calm and unbothered, until he finally told me I didn’t need to go out.
My shoulders straighten, the memory hitting harder than I expect.
He’d never laid a hand on me, but his control over my life ran deeper than I should’ve been willing to allow.
Since then, I’ve pretended to resume my previous antics. Not even my friends realize that I haven’t been able to sleep with a man since the breakup. Making out in a bar is one thing, but trusting someone enough to go home with them is another story entirely.
It pisses me off that he’s still controlling that part of my life, even in his absence.
My throat works, and I force myself out of my head before I spiral further.
“He was fine,” I say finally, forcing my voice to stay even, because there’s no version of this conversation where she understands any of it. “But I’m not getting back together with him.”
She sighs again. “I just want you to be happy.”
“I am happy.” I turn the car off, reaching for my bag because if I sit here any longer, I’m going to crawl out of my skin. “I just don’t need a relationship to get there.”
There’s a pause, and just as I think she might argue, she hums quietly instead.
“Alright,” she says. “Call me later?”
“Yeah,” I answer, already halfway out the door. “I will.”
I hang up before she can add anything else, pulling my jacket tighter as I head toward the store and try to shake off the lingering irritation that always seems to follow conversations with my parents.
It’s stupid, really, how easily they get under my skin and drag up things that I’d prefer to pretend I have moved on from.
By the time I push through the doors, grabbing a basket I don’t actually want, I’ve almost convinced myself I don’t care.
Almost.
The store is busier than I expected for a weekday morning, carts rattling over tile and people drifting through aisles like they’ve got nowhere better to be. It’s exactly the kind of slow, mindless energy I’m trying to match.
I make it through produce and dairy without issue, tossing a few things into my basket without much thought. I turn the corner fast, too busy getting lost in my head to pay attention, and walk straight into something solid.
Not something.
Someone.
My basket bumps hard into his side as my shoulder collides with his chest, the impact stopping me short. I jolt back as if I’d run into a wall.
A very chiseled wall.
“Careful.”
The voice is ice down my spine, and I don’t even need to look up to know exactly who it is.
Of fucking course.
I take a step back, my grip tightening on the basket as I tilt my head up, already annoyed.
“Hi, Chaos.”
Grayson Shaw is standing there smirking as if he didn’t just absorb that hit without so much as shifting, one hand braced lightly against his cart, the other still holding whatever he grabbed before I ran into him.
His expression is calm. Like always.
He can’t be more than six-foot-one, but considering I’m only five-four and standing way too close to him, he towers over me.
“You could try watching where you’re going,” he adds, not even sounding irritated, which somehow makes it worse.
I huff out a breath, rolling my shoulder once, still feeling the impact. “You could try not standing in the middle of the aisle like a brick wall.”
His lips twitch. “Didn’t realize I was that sturdy.”
I roll my eyes, turning away from him and reaching for a box of mac and cheese on the shelf. It wasn’t on my list, but I need something to do with my hands.
“Why are you always showing up around me?” I drop the box into my basket.
“Must be fate.”
I snort. “I must have some really bad karma then.”
“The worst.”
His gaze dips to my groceries, and I immediately regret not grabbing literally anything else.
Ramen. Frozen meals. Chips.
He doesn’t say anything right away, the silence stretching uncomfortably long.
“What?” I shift my weight.
“Nothing,” he replies as his eyes flick back up to mine.
There’s something glinting in them.
“Say it.”
He exhales quietly. “You eat like a college freshman.”
I let out a short laugh, more incredulous than amused. I glance in his cart, taking note of the fresh produce and seasonings.
“And you shop like someone with a meal prep spreadsheet.”
He glances down at his cart, then back at me. “What’s wrong with real food?”
“Nothing. I just don’t feel like cooking after practice, or games, or existing, so this works.”
He nods slowly, which throws me off more than if he’d argued.
“You could make enough for a few days,” he says after a second. “Doesn’t take that long.”
I stare at him. “Did you just try to give me unprompted meal planning advice in the middle of a grocery store?”
“Just a suggestion.”
“Yeah, no,” I shake my head. “I’m good.”
Another beat passes, quieter this time, and I can feel him shift next to me. I realize then that we’re still standing far too close. My feet move automatically, creating space between us.
“Rough morning?” He asks, voice a little softer now.
“Nope.”
“Right.”
I glance over, narrowing my eyes. “We’re not friends.”
“I’m well aware.”
“Goodbye, Grayson.”
I move past him, heading toward the front of the store because I’ve officially hit my limit for both grocery shopping and this conversation.
Apparently, he can’t take a hint because he falls into step behind me. He’s not crowding or pushing, but I feel caged in anyway. I glance back to find him intentionally looking away, whistling like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
“Stop following me,” I mutter.
“C’mon, Chaos. Stop flattering yourself. I’m trying to check out.”
I stop short, and he nearly runs into me. “Stop calling me that.”
He quirks an eyebrow. “Why? Does it bother you?”
Yes.
“No.”
I refuse to let anything about this man get to me.
“Good. I think I’ll keep it.”
Of course.
We reach the checkout at the same time, and I step into the first open lane, unloading my basket piece by piece.
The cashier starts scanning, and I dig through my bag for my wallet, aware of Grayson stepping up behind me.
“Find everything you need?” The cashier asks.
“Yeah.” I pull out my debit card.
The total pops up, and I’m about to tap my card when there’s movement beside me.
Grayson reaches forward, holding out his card for the cashier before I can process what he’s doing.
“What are you doing?” My voice could cut glass.
The cashier and Grayson both freeze, eyes flicking between each other and me.
“Paying.”
I stare at his card, then at him, something hot flaring up my back.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “No, you’re not.”
I snatch Grayson’s card from the cashier, pressing mine into the reader instead, not caring if I look rude.
“I’m sorry.” His brow furrows slightly. “I was just being nice.”
“Stop trying to be nice,” I shoot back, snatching my bag from the cashier.
The last person who bought me groceries was Damon. He’d give me his card, then use it as a weapon to interrogate me about the total cost, the stores I shopped at, or the food I bought.
Nothing, and I mean nothing, ever comes without strings.
“If it wasn’t you, it would’ve been whoever else was in front of me. I always do it. It’s not a big deal. ”
Yeah. Right. I’m supposed to believe that Grayson buys groceries for random people all the time.
“I don’t need you to pay for my stuff,” I continue, stepping back from the counter. “And I definitely don’t need to owe you anything.”
His expression shifts, and his hands twitch at his side. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“That’s not how it works.”
“Chaos…”
“Nope. Not doing this.”
I push past him, heading straight for the exit, the doors sliding open as cold air hits my face. My car’s across the lot, so I make a beeline for it, keys already in hand. Once I make it inside, I rest my forehead against the steering wheel, forcing my breathing to steady.
What is wrong with me?
I jam my keys into the ignition, hoping to get out of the parking lot before Grayson can follow me, but when I turn them, nothing happens.
The engine clicks.
I try again.
Nothing.
When I try a third time, it doesn’t even click over. It’s total silence, and I give up, dropping my head to the steering wheel.
Bad karma strikes again.