Chapter 8
JORDAN
Are those honey blaze nectarines?
I push the shopping cart closer to the edge of the produce aisle until I can see the little sign. “Paige, they’ve got honey blaze nectarines now.” I hold up the seasonal red fruit that has been Paige’s favorite since she discovered them in high school.
Paige’s face instantly brightens. “Have I mentioned how much I love June?” she says from across the rows of fruit, her hands full of berry cartons.
“How many do you want?”
“Um, four… no, five.”
I bag six. She’ll get through them before the weekend and want more.
Paige meets me at the end of the aisle and places her strawberries and raspberries in the cart next to the apples and nectarines I gathered. Then, as per usual, we head down the vegetable section, and I examine the bags of romaine lettuce while she picks out the cilantro and parsley.
At the beginning of the year, Paige and I had a series of months where the only time we saw each other was on the weekends. She was new to her internship and eager to prove herself, which meant longer hours for her at work, while I had more clients than I knew what to do with and not enough employees. We figured if we ever wanted to catch up during the week, we would have to multitask. Since then, we’ve been Tuesday-night regulars at our local McGregor’s grocery store, shopping and catching up.
I flip over a bag of organic romaine lettuce, checking through the clear plastic for any bugs or brown spots. Sure enough, little black bugs fleck the inside, and I wince. Paige claims the tiny beetles wash off, but the thought of an accidental bug mixed in with my ranch and croutons is enough to send a shiver down my spine. I put one beetle bag in the cart for Paige and get myself a bag full of chemical-sprayed lettuce.
The cart squeaks to life as I follow Paige through the next two aisles, grabbing our usual fare. Eventually, we stop in front of the greeting cards, and I watch Paige pick up two possible birthday cards for her cousin who lives in Maine. Paige reads both of them, puts them back, and picks them up again before she ultimately puts them back and picks up different cards. Paige’s mouth scrunches, and I can tell she’s overanalyzing how each card will be received.
I hunch over the shopping cart, resting my elbows on the handle. It’s going to be a while.
After several minutes, she holds up two drastically different cards. “Should I send something funny like I did last year or something more serious that lets her know I’m grateful for her?”
I point to the colorful one with the goldendoodle wearing a cape. “I say the funny one, but then again, does Alicia like dogs?”
Paige’s forehead furrows in thought. “I don’t know. Her family had a dog when we were young, but after it died, they didn’t get a new one. Maybe they didn’t get a new dog because it was too painful to replace their old dog?”
I shrug. “Or maybe the dog was a biter, and now she associates dogs with bad memories.”
Paige seems to contemplate this and then returns the cards before restarting her search.
After a good five minutes, she holds up a new card and beams. “This one.” She gestures to it like a proud toddler who’s drawn their first stick figure. “This is the one. Right?”
I tilt my head, taking in the bright-pink card like a piece in an art museum. “Does Alicia like pink?”
“Ugh.” Paige slaps my arm with the back of the card several times before putting it in the cart. “You’re the worst!”
I laugh, and Paige glares at me, but that scowl is instantly offset by the emerging smile she tries to conceal. It feels good to make Paige smile. Ever since she found out she didn’t get the copywriting job at Wonderman & Fleck, she’s been frantically searching for something else that could give her the right experience she wants before applying to Z3 Group. But none of the jobs she’s considered seem to excite her, leaving her stressed and without a plan.
I push the cart forward, surprised the wheels aren’t stuck in place from not moving for so long, and trail behind Paige as we walk down the baking supply aisle. I’m just placing a bag of flour in the cart when my phone buzzes. When I pull it out of my pocket, I see that Zia just texted me.
My chest fills with nervous energy as my thoughts drift back to my second date with Zia last Saturday. If I thought Zia was beautiful when I first ran into her at Paige’s office, it was nothing compared to the sequined red dress and fiery lipstick she wore that night. The woman could stop traffic—and not just because she was wearing a traffic-stopping color.
When we arrived at our restaurant, I half expected paparazzi to jump out of the bushes to snap photos of the beautiful woman clinging to my arm. Which she did—a lot. I may or may not have flexed my bicep whenever her hand rested there, but what else is a guy to do? I’ve never dated a girl who’s demonstrated such obvious appreciation for what they like. But that just seems to be Zia. Her confidence is as bright and bold as her wardrobe.
Zia and I spent an hour after our dinner walking around a secluded path that circled a nearby lake. The summer heat had relaxed into a warm breeze, and Zia immediately kicked off her heels and walked barefoot next to me. As we talked, I held Zia’s heels in one hand while her fingers occupied the other.
“Who is it?” Paige asks, snapping me out of my thoughts. She adds some vegetable oil to our shopping cart.
“Uh… It’s Zia,” I say.
“Oh.” Paige laughs awkwardly before taking up a sudden interest in a nearby display of birthday candles.
This is the reason we don’t talk about dating, dates, boyfriends, girlfriends, or anything of the non-platonic variety. It’s like the Grim Reaper of boy-girl friendships. Things get awkward. Things get messy. Things get torn to shreds. And before you know it, you’ve spent four and a half miserable years without each other.
I’m not about to go through that again.
So I do what’s worked best in the past and deflect like it’s my job. “Hey, don’t let me forget to pick up some more granola for my mom. And some beans. Lots of the stuff she had in her pantry was expired. Did you know there was a guy in Denver who died of expired pancake mix last year? I heard that on the radio.”
Paige must be as eager to ditch the uncomfortable tension between us because suddenly we’re diving deep into a conversation about 1950s housewives and the evolution of pancake mix.
Eventually, we grab the beans and granola and start working our way down the fridge aisle when my phone buzzes. Zia again. That’s when I realize I never opened Zia’s first message. I quickly remedy that.
Zia: Will you give my cousin’s number to Paige? We have to make this double date work. Ian will absolutely love her!
Below this is Ian’s number, followed by her most recent text.
Zia: I just made reservations for this Saturday at six for all four of us. This is going to be fun. And I hope you like Indian food. This place is my favorite.
My stomach churns. Not only do I not like Indian food with its chunky soup-like textures, but also I can’t stomach the idea of sitting across from Paige on a date. If talking about Zia in aisle twelve made things awkward between us, going on a double date will do us in.
“Strawberry yogurt or vanilla?” Paige asks.
“Uh… vanilla,” I say just before I’m completely distracted by another text from Zia.
Zia: I know you are protective of Paige, but I promise, Ian is one of the good ones.
He’s “one of the good ones”? The words remind me of Gabby Barrett’s popular country song. Suddenly, I’m picturing Paige with Ian, the supposed “good one.” I imagine them sitting on the porch swing of their farmhouse late at night, talking about the gaggle of kids filling their home before he serenades her with Rascal Flatts.
I undo a button near my collar. I’ve never really cared for country music.
Paige and I hop into our usual checkout line, but the cart in front of us is packed to the brim with mostly small items. This is going to take a while.
Paige picks up a magazine with a picture of Meghan Markle on the cover then places it back on the rack, covering it with a magazine featuring Beyoncé, then she smiles. Sometimes, I can’t explain the things she does. She starts thumbing through a different magazine with Joanna Gaines on the front when the lyrics to “The Good Ones” start running through my head again.
Great, now my brain is a tumble dryer full of country lyrics and Zia’s cousin Ian. I don’t even know this Ian—but do I really need to? I’ve never known an Ian who didn’t end up being a complete jerk. I wouldn’t let Paige within a ten-foot radius of that kind of guy, let alone help set her up with one.
My phone buzzes again, and I resist the urge to chuck it down the freezer aisle. I have a feeling that it’s Zia again, and I’m right.
I’m learning quickly that when Zia is set on something, she doesn’t let it go. Not a bad quality. It’s just… Why is she so determined to set up Paige? If Paige was really interested in going on a date with Ian, she could ask Zia about the guy at work. I could avoid being the middleman, and Paige and I could keep our dating lives separate. Things could go on like normal.
I click on Zia’s text, reading her most recent addition.
Zia: Or maybe we should have Ian and Paige go on a one-on-one date and get to know each other first.
Great! I couldn’t have planned that better. I’m moments away from texting Zia back to tell her this is a five-star plan when I remember Paige’s diner date a couple weeks ago. I nearly had a heart attack when Paige called me for a rescue using our SOS phrase. What if this Ian isn’t actually a good one? What if he mistreats her? Last time, I was seven minutes away from her date venue. What if Ian takes her somewhere far away and I can’t get to her, or to a place without reception, where she can’t call me?
Before I know it, my thumbs are moving, and I send the response.
Jordan: No, a double date would be fun. Six on Saturday it is. I’ll pass Ian’s info along to Paig e.
A strange mix of relief and dread pools in my stomach. I try to tell myself that what’s done is done, and it’s for the best. And at least I’ll be able to make sure Ian is really worthy of Paige.
But now I have to give Paige Ian’s number, and that’s not just crossing the line we’ve drawn but obliterating it.
Paige unloads her groceries onto the belt, and I put the little bar separator between our stuff and start loading some dairy items on the foot of space remaining.
Paige’s items move forward, closer to our usual cashier, Dove, as the guy before us leaves with his heaping tower of grocery bags.
“Hi, Dove,” Paige says, raising her voice for our hard-of-hearing cashier.
“Oh, hi, sweetie! How’s your summer been?” Dove beams at Paige as if seeing her just brought a splash of joy into the woman’s day. I can’t blame Dove—Paige has that effect on everyone.
“I can’t complain,” Paige says, leaning closer to Dove and speaking louder. “I haven’t seen you for a few weeks. Not since before Mother’s Day. Did you do anything fun?”
“Oh, dear, you don’t have to talk so loud anymore.” Dove taps behind her ears. “Just got myself a pair of hearing aids.” She scans a jar of jam before bagging it.
“That’s wonderful.” Paige smiles, leaning back.
The beeping from the scanner picks up as Dove gets into a rhythm. “I’ll tell you one thing, I sure do love hearing my little grandkids again,” she says. “I forgot how wonderful it is to hear their giggling from another room. And the trickling of the stream in my backyard. It’s been far too long since I’ve heard those things.”
Paige looks thoughtful. “I love that. It's like you got life’s soundtrack back.”
“I’ve never thought of it that way, but I think you’re exactly right.” Dove hands Paige her receipt, and Paige pulls our empty cart forward and begins loading it with her bags.
“Hi, Jordan,” Dove says in greeting before eyeing the food I unpacked on the belt. She looks up at me like I’ve been too loud in the library. “I don’t see very many fruits here.”
Paige snorts.
I point a finger at Paige. “Dove, you let Paige get away with a twenty-four-pack of orange soda, and you’re flagging me ?”
Paige gasps dramatically. “Don’t hate on my junk food.”
Dove smiles and starts zipping my lackluster groceries across the scanner. “Yeah, well, Paige is getting more than just apples,” she says, pinning me with a pointed stare.
I pick up my box of Froot Loops, putting it front and center. “Here. Fruit.”
“Paige, help this man,” Dove says.
Paige holds up both her hands. “I’ve tried. He’s very particular about the squish level of his produce.”
Dove just laughs and shakes her head before printing out my receipt and handing it to me. “Have a good night, you two.”
When we get to the parking lot, I pop my trunk open, and Paige and I start loading our groceries in the back. It’s a casual setting, about as good a time as any to obliterate that line.
I take a breath. “Hey, so Zia was wondering if you wanted to go on a double date with us this Saturday. She wants to set you up with Ian, the ten.” I waggle my eyebrows as if the lighthearted gesture could mask the fact that I’m officially meddling with Paige’s dating life.
Paige’s hand pauses for the briefest moment before reaching for another bag. Then she finishes loading her groceries like she’s in a grocery-stacking competition, nothing but pure determination on her face.
We quickly run out of bags to pile into my car, and she slams the trunk down with serious force, making the license plate on the back rattle. When she finally meets my eyes, her gaze is intent. “Do you want me to go on a date with Ian?”
My hands white-knuckle the handle of the empty shopping cart as I try not to react to her question. “Sure,” I manage to say with a shrug.
She nods and closes her eyes as if that statement was a declaration and not the flimsiest word in the English dictionary. Then her eyes drift open, and when they do, she smiles for the briefest moment. “Okay then. I’ll go.”
“Okay then.” I nod, mirroring her breezy tone.
Paige pivots and gets into the passenger seat. She turns on Kelly Clarkson’s Stronger album, and we drive home, just like any other Tuesday night.
I should be happy. Paige and I have broken down a barrier, and we have no awkward tension. We’re as buddy-buddy as ever.
So why, then, do I feel like a part of me just died in that parking lot? Like my time’s running out? Like I’ve lost her already?
But I remind myself that this is how it has to be. Paige was never mine to keep.