Chapter 19 Sage
SAGE
As Brady pulls his car into the parking lot of the very same grocery store where we first ran into each other, my hand reflexively touches my stomach.
I've been doing that a lot lately, touching the bump that seems to grow more and more each day. It grounds me, which I sorely need right now. I’ve yet to find somewhere else to live, and am therefore stuck in Brady’s apartment while trying to convince myself not to act on the attraction I feel for him.
Which is infinitely harder to do after watching him play yesterday.
Good lord, the way that man fills out a baseball uniform is painfully sexy. Those tight pants hugging his muscular ass and thighs. The way his shoulders and arms bunch under the sleeves of his jersey.
And the fierce concentration when he was pitching? That reminded me of the way he looked at me when we were together in January.
Intense, zeroed in on what was in front of him, determined not to lose.
Seeing him in his element, surrounded by his teammates, being cheered on by an entire town, made it clear that Brady belongs here.
And for the first time in a long time, I felt a pang of jealousy.
What would that feel like, to belong somewhere?
“You have the list, right?” Brady asks as he expertly maneuvers his car into a parking spot near the front door.
“Yep,” I reply. We get out of the car and start walking toward the door before he speaks again.
“Any new cravings that we need to buy?” he teases, gently nudging me with his shoulder. “Pickle flavoured everything or spicy peppers?”
I roll my eyes. “Definitely not. And could you be more cliché?”
He just laughs. “Hey, how should I know if it’s a cliché? I’m not the pregnant one, all I have to go on are books and movies.”
“What have you been reading lately? Aside from something that says all women need to crave pickles.” I shudder. “Not that I would ever be like that, I think they're disgusting.”
Brady’s head bobs up and down emphatically. “Same here, pickles are gross. But if you were craving them, I would put up with it.”
I scrunch my brows up at him, shaking my head in amusement. “That’s kind of you, but I'm good.”
Not that Brady being kind and considerate is a surprise anymore. The man even dealt with my soaking wet laundry for me when I crashed after the flood at the hotel.
I’ll blame the fact that I burst into tears over him separating my delicates on pregnancy hormones.
Everything he does seems to be about what everyone around him needs or what will make them happy. If you opened the Urban Dictionary to “green flag,” it would have a picture of him instead of a definition.
“I don’t think I have any cravings, really.”
“If you say so.” He smirks as we enter the store. He grabs a shopping cart and heads straight for the produce section. Picking up a bunch of bananas, he places them in the cart.
“Gotta make sure the baby gets their potassium,” he says.
“You do realize the baby isn’t eating anything quite yet,” I tease, pointing to my stomach. “Kind of hard to do from inside.”
Lifting one finger, he counters, “That's not entirely true. This one article I read said that the baby absorbs all the necessary nutrients from you. Kind of like a parasite. So, doesn't it make sense that if you eat bananas, in a way, the baby is eating bananas?”
I stare at him, trying to figure out if he's serious or not. When his shoulders start to shake with laughter, I roll my eyes and push past him toward a display of avocados.
“Okay, genius. Sure. Call our kid a parasite, why don’t you.”
I hear his chuckle from behind me and let my own amusement break free.
Then my gaze lands on a display of dried mango slices.
My mouth starts to water, and I pick up a package, only to put it back down.
I pick it up again, sorely tempted to toss it in the cart, then with a sigh, put it down again.
I'll be damned if I let Brady think he's right about the pregnancy cravings.
I'll come back and get some tomorrow if I'm still wanting them.
After grabbing a few more things from the produce section, we turn the corner into the cereal aisle. Brady comes to a stop in front of a display of colourful sugar-filled boxes.
“I haven't had this stuff in years,” he says wistfully. “After my parents died, I had to be so careful with our budget. Fancy cereal was out and plain Cheerios were in. Except for one year at Christmas.”
He gets a far-off look in his eyes. “I surprised the twins with jumbo boxes of their favourites. It was ridiculous how excited they were over cereal.”
Ridiculous and heartbreaking, I think to myself. The sacrifices they had to make, and the grief they all experienced at such young ages. I know it all too well.
“What would you have gotten? If you had the choice,” I ask, and he points to one that just so happens to be my favourite as well. Reaching in front of him, I grab a box and toss it in the cart.
“Cereal sounds like a good idea for dinner tonight, doesn't it?” I ask casually.
Brady's laugh is light. “Yeah, it does.”
We carry on down the aisle, and I'm grateful that I'm in front of him so he can't see the smile on my face. How does this man make something as simple as grocery shopping feel so intimate and special?
Turning another corner, we grab a few things that were actually on our list. Then, as Brady detours to get some milk out of the coolers, I turn down the next aisle. And immediately come to a stop.
The shelf in front of me is full of so many childhood throwbacks, so many treats that remind me of happier times when my mom was alive.
I search the shelves, looking for one particular package.
I haven't seen them in years, but as my gaze lands on the familiar bright blue box, a pang of grief mixed with nostalgic joy hits me square in the chest.
“What the hell are Dunkaroos?”
I startle, not realizing Brady had returned with the milk and a carton of eggs. He places them in the cart before coming to stand beside me, one hand going to the small of my back as he peeks over my shoulder.
I twist my head to the side, my mouth falling open in surprise. “You're joking. You don't know what Dunkaroos are?”
Brady's eyeing the box like it might bite him. “Definitely not. Sounds like a cartoon, not a snack.”
“Oh my God, you poor, deprived child,” I tease. “These were like…legendary when I was growing up. They’re cookies you dip in frosting. I used to beg my mom to put them in the loot bags for my birthday parties, and once in a while she would surprise me with one in my lunch.”
Brady's brow furrows but the corners of his mouth tip up.
“So you’re telling me people paid real money for sugar cookies, that I assume are shaped like kangaroos, and little things of chemical-filled frosting?”
I slowly placed the box back on the shelf, then fold my arms over my chest above my baby bump and shake my head as if I'm really disappointed.
“Wow. Okay. Way to insult my favourite childhood treat. Besides, they weren't only kangaroo-shaped cookies, some of them were shaped like the logo.”
Brady busts out a loud laugh. “Oh sorry, that changes everything.”
I narrow my eyes, even as I'm fighting back a grin of my own. “Careful, Dixon, you’re dangerously close to being banned from co-parenting rights.”
“Over cookies? Wow, Sage, that's harsh.” His face is full of mirth, and I’m secretly proud I was able to lighten the mood after the cereal aisle.
I pick the box up again and toss it in the cart. “I’m going to make you try one later. Then I'll consider accepting your apology.”
We carry on around the store, focusing on our list. But the laughter is coming easier, and when he brushes against me, it feels natural. Everything about being with Brady feels natural. Easy. Which is scaring me less and less.
We approach the checkout, and Brady pushes me gently to the side so he can unload our cart.
“I can help, you know. I'm pregnant, not broken,” I mutter with a huff.
“Oh honey, let your man help. I think it's nice to see a fella doting over his wife.”
The woman ahead of us turns around. She's got white hair, which is pulled back in a bun, and a kind face. She looks like a grandma, the kind who probably makes pies from scratch every weekend.
Beaming at us, she goes on to comment, “I must say, you two make a beautiful couple. And you, my dear, are just glowing. That little one is going to be so lucky to have parents like you.”
“Oh, we're not—” I start to say.
But at the exact same time, Brady replies, “Thank you, that's really kind of you to say.”
I blink as the old woman smiles again and turns back to the cashier who's ringing up her groceries.
I glance at Brady, but he's still focused on unloading our items and not looking at me. Leaning in close, I drop my voice to a whisper.
“You didn’t correct her.”
Brady doesn't meet my gaze as he lifts the last few items onto the belt.
“Didn’t feel like a mistake.”
My throat tightens.
“But it was, Brady,” I say quietly so no one else can overhear. “We're not a couple.”
I expect to see him flinch, but he just stands there, calm and steady. Maybe my words hurt me more than they hurt him.
“But you are beautiful, and glowing, and this baby is going to be so lucky to have a mom like you. None of that was a mistake. The other part?” He shrugs. “Correcting her would've only made her feel uncomfortable. I didn't see the point in doing that.”
We're both quiet as we go through the checkout, Brady paying for the groceries despite me trying to pass him my credit card.
We don't say a word to each other all the way back to the car or while we load the bags of groceries into the back.
As I lift one of the bags out of the cart, my gaze catches on a package sitting near the top, and my heart skips a beat.
It's the mango slices I picked up in the produce section.
“Seemed like you wanted them,” he says casually before closing the trunk and walking around to the driver’s door. Looking at me over the top of the car, he winks.
“Some might even call it a craving, but what do I know?”