Chapter Ten
Feelings in Aisle Six
Crew
I don’t know how I ended up at the grocery store with Emmie Marshall on a Sunday morning.
Actually, that’s not true. I know exactly how. She needed ingredients for a recipe she’s testing. I needed protein and eggs. She said, “We might as well go together,” like it was the most logical thing in the world, and I couldn’t think of a reason to say no.
So here I am, pushing a cart through the produce section while she squeezes avocados like she’s selecting something priceless.
“This one’s perfect.” She holds it up, triumphant. “See how it gives just a little? Not too soft, not too firm.”
“It’s an avocado.”
“It’s the avocado. There’s a difference.” She sets it in the cart like she’s placing a crown on a pillow. “You can’t just grab any avocado, Crew. That’s how you end up with brown mush or a rock that won’t ripen for six days.”
“I’ve never bought an avocado in my life.”
She stops and stares at me. “I’m sorry, what?”
“I don’t eat avocados.”
“You live in Texas.”
“And?”
“And that’s—” She shakes her head. “We’re fixing that. I’m making you guacamole this week. Real guacamole. Not the stuff from a tub.”
“Guacamole comes in tubs?”
“Unfortunately.” She shudders and moves toward the tomatoes.
I follow with the cart, watching her work. She touches everything, smells the cilantro, holds the limes up to the light, and has a full conversation with herself about whether she needs one jalapeno or two.
“Two,” she decides. “In case one’s a dud.”
“How can a pepper be a dud?”
“No heat. It happens. You bite into it expecting spice, and you get… bell pepper vibes.” She wrinkles her nose. “Devastating.”
I don’t know why I find this entertaining, but I do.
An older woman reaches past us for a bag of lemons, and Emmie shifts to give her room.
“Oh, those are good ones,” Emmie says, nodding at the woman’s selection. “I got some last week. Super juicy.”
The woman blinks, then smiles. “Thank you, dear. Are you a chef?”
“Cookbook author. But I burn things more often than I’d like to admit.”
The woman laughs. They chat for another minute—about lemon bars, about the woman’s granddaughter who’s learning to bake, about the weather. By the time we move on, Emmie knows the woman’s name is Dorothy, her granddaughter is named Lily, and she lives in the apartments off Cedar Springs.
“You do that a lot,” I say.
“Do what?”
“Talk to strangers.”
“They’re not strangers. They’re just people I haven’t met yet.” She grabs a bunch of green onions and examines them. “You should try it sometime.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Shocking.” But she’s smiling.
We move through the store. She takes her time, and for some strange reason, I don’t try to rush her.
This is different from how I shop. I have a list. I have a route. I’m in and out in fifteen minutes, max. Eggs, chicken, protein powder, broccoli—done.
Emmie treats it like an experience. She wanders down the international aisle “just to see what’s new.” She stops at the cheese section and debates three different types of feta with the intensity of a hostage negotiator. She waves at a stock boy like they’re old friends.
“Hey! Did that hot sauce ever come back in?”
“Next week,” he calls back. “I’ll save you a bottle.”
“You’re the best!”
She turns back to me, beaming.
“Do you know everyone who works here?” I ask.
“Just the important ones.”
We end up in the cereal aisle, which I have no reason to be in. But she’s looking for something specific—some kind of granola with “the good clusters, not the dusty bits”—and I’m pushing the cart, so here I am.
“Do you even eat breakfast?” she asks, scanning the shelves.
“Protein shake. And eggs.”
“That’s not breakfast. That’s fuel.”
“Breakfast is fuel.”
She makes a face. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. It should be enjoyable. Pancakes. Waffles. A really good omelet.” She finds her granola and tosses it in the cart. “I’m making you pancakes this weekend.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Chocolate chip. From scratch. Non-negotiable.”
I don’t argue. I’ve already learned arguing with her over food is pointless.
At checkout, she chats with the cashier—a tired-looking woman in her fifties whose name tag says Cindi. Within two minutes, Emmie has learned that Cindi has been on her feet since six, her daughter just had a baby, and she’s counting down the days until her vacation to Galveston.
“You deserve that beach,” Emmie says, completely sincere. “Put your feet up. Drink something with an umbrella in it.”
Cindi laughs—a real laugh, surprised out of her. “I like you.”
“I like you too.” Emmie grins at her.
I load the bags into the cart while Emmie pays for her half. She insisted on separate transactions—something about keeping track of her cookbook expenses.
When we walk out into the parking lot, the sun is warm, and she’s still talking—something about how she needs to find a better fish market, how the salmon here is fine but not great, how there’s a place in Fort Worth that’s worth the drive.
I’m not really listening to the words.
I’m listening to her voice—the rise and fall of it, the way she gestures with her hands, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s thinking.
She catches me looking. “What?” She smiles.
“Nothing.” I unlock the truck. “I was thinking about the fish market.”
“Uh-huh.” She doesn’t believe me. But she doesn’t push it either.
We load the groceries. She climbs into the passenger seat, already pulling out her phone to check something for her recipe.
I sit behind the wheel for a moment—just a moment. This is dangerous. Not the fake dating. Not the contract. This.
Sunday mornings. Grocery stores. Watching her squeeze avocados and befriend cashiers and fill the silence with warmth I didn’t ask for.
I’m pretty sure fake girlfriends aren’t supposed to make you feel like this.
Something that feels a lot like panic starts climbing up my throat.
I start the truck and pull out of the parking lot before it can reach the surface.