7. Seven
Seven
After dropping off Mabel and her plant—a very phallic-looking cactus—I walk the dog with Huck, take a spin class at the gym, and finally walk through the doors of the grocery store where the relief is instant.
There’s soft music playing over the speakers, like the DJ designed the playlist just for me, and combined with the emptiness of the aisles, the calm that washes over me rivals that of someone on an actual vacation.
I wave to my regular cashier, Monica. Her black hair is in its usual dreadlocks, but today they are tied up with a bright pink headband which pops against her dark brown skin. “Right on time, Birdie!” she calls with a smile as I grab my cart.
“I’m nothing if not prompt,” I say to her with a laugh.
I always start in produce, where I’m free to examine every item I put in my cart with scrutiny and at my leisure .
I’m interrupted mid-prod of a bag of oranges with, “Fancy seeing you here.”
I close my eyes, knowing before I see. Bo.
I don’t look at him when I ask, “What are you doing here?”
I hear the smile I refuse to look at when he responds, “Well, I’m either here because I enjoy grocery shopping on Friday nights or because you enjoy grocery shopping on Friday nights.”
“You know, I knew you were a closet Friday night grocery shopper from the moment I met you.”
Then, because I can’t not, I look at him, and damn him for looking so good in a Monroe Cabins T-shirt and blue jeans, leaning effortlessly on the handle of an empty cart. His crooked smile and toothpick somehow add to his appeal. His hair, usually loose and tucked behind his ears, is pushed back, showing off the angles of his face more than usual. Even in the harsh lighting of the grocery store, Bo is a damn treat.
My yoga pants, sweaty cropped top, and unkempt ponytail might as well be garbage bags next to him.
After letting myself drink him in long enough that even Mabel would be proud, I drop the bag of oranges I’ve been holding in my cart and start walking away.
To the surprise of no one, he follows.
“How can I help you?” I ask, investigating an onion.
“I told you I want to help you.”
I scoff. “Self-centered much? In case you haven’t noticed, what I need help with gets billions of dollars of funding each year, and they still can’t figure it out. I don’t think you have the cure for cancer, Bo.” I shoot him a look as I put two onions in my cart and move to the next bin.
“That’s not what I mean.”
I ignore him, irritated he’s here, in my Friday night ritual, on my holy ground.
He stays too close as I work my way through every vegetable. Watching. Hovering.
Finally, it unnerves me just enough I stop pushing my cart, turning to face him.
“Since you won’t leave me alone, I’m listening.”
His smile is smug and annoying as hell. He holds up his hand and stuck to one finger is a pink piece of paper. No, a stack of pink papers. Sticky notes?
My eyes narrow, but damn him, I’m curious.
“I made a list,” he says, proud.
“Of?” I ask, stretching my neck from side to side but doing nothing to squelch my anxiety and impatience over whatever it is he’s doing.
“Of how to help you really live.” When he beams, I want to punch him in the face.
“You know what?” I start pushing my cart away from him, heading toward the dairy section. “No. I’m living , Bo. This is absurd. And offensive.”
He follows, his own cart rolling right beside mine, ignoring me. “If you’re living , why are you here alone on a Friday night?”
“Why are you here alone on a Friday night?” I respond .
“Because I dropped Lucy off at her cousin’s house so I could come find you .”
I hate his answer with every fiber of my being.
“Bo, I get it, I’m alone. I’m easy to take pity on because of my family history and the fact I’m likely to drop dead any minute. But this”—I wiggle my finger between us—“isn’t happening.”
“I already told you it wasn’t,” he says, tilting his head just enough some of the pushed back hair falls toward his face. His lips pinch, stilling the toothpick as if trying to hide a smile.
I blow out a frustrated breath.
I weigh my options, mentally making my own lists. On one hand, I could do whatever he has on those notes— live, or die, depending on what they say—and spend time with him, which in turn could lead to some kind of friendship and him watching me die. On the other hand, I could ignore him, continue living my life the way I am, and die alone.
And while the latter is the tidier and more straightforward of the two, it sounds depressing as hell and makes a sour taste fill my mouth.
I’m living... am I living?
I pull out my phone.
“What are you doing?”
I glare at him. “I’m seeing if you’re right.” I angle the screen toward him so he can see What does it mean to feel alive? typed in the search bar.
He laughs in disbelief, rubbing a hand across his bearded jaw. “You’re looking it up?! ”
I pin him with a look that I really hope conveys, Fuck off before reading the answer aloud:
“Feeling and being alive requires a deep psychological and physical meeting of needs. A sense of unity within, often a heightened experience of senses and awareness. When in a state of aliveness, there’s a deep-rooted sense of joy along with an indescribable feeling of freedom. To be alive means to have a passion for living.”
I pause, considering this, and scoff. Then feel slightly attacked.
Are my needs physically and psychologically met? Hmm…
Do I feel a sense of unity and experience all senses? Well…
Deep-rooted sense of joy? Feeling of freedom? Even I’m not this delusional; I know the answer is no. No, no, no.
When I look at him again, he’s smug. Again. Like he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
“Why do you want to do this?” I ask, skimming the words on my screen again.
He shrugs. “Maybe selfishly it’s a reason to be around you even though I know I can’t have you.”
I attempt to translate what that means, but everything jumbles together. He is the least of my concerns in this moment, as the internet, in its infinite wisdom and source of definitions, called me dead even though that’s the opposite of what I want. What I’ve been working for.
Finally, I say, “Fine.”
When he grins, I hold out my hand. “But let me read the list.”
“Uh-uh.” He shakes his head, scraping his knuckles under his chin before shoving the sticky notes in the pocket of his jeans. “ That’s part of it. It’s a surprise.” When my nostrils flare he adds, “But I promise you won’t get hurt.”
I shake my head, push my cart another two steps, then stop.
Again, I ask, “Why are you doing this?”
His response is instant. “Because I know how it feels to not have a say in how your life happens.”
I squint at him, but when he doesn’t say more neither do I.
The way he looks at me has an intensity—a hopefulness that I can’t explain. For the first time, part of me wonders if he needs this as much as he thinks I do.
I swallow, my body vibrating with too many things. Fear? Excitement? Anxiety? It’s hard to pinpoint one.
In the year that will likely be my last, can I do this? With him?
I like my life. I think.
I study him. His toothpick rolling effortlessly across his lips and his brown eyes sparkling with green and gold flecks that look like two gemstones on his face.
Then, like I’m not so terrified I might pass out, I push my cart again, saying over my shoulder, “I need bread if you’re going to follow me.”
I’m not looking at him, but I know he’s smiling. I feel it.
The sound of the wheels of his cart screakily rolling across the floor confirms what I predict.
“Tell me about the cabins you build,” I say, stopping my cart in front of a rack of bread. “How’d you start?”
“Lincoln Logs on Gran’s floor,” he says, strolling to an easy stop as he leans on the handle of his cart. “I got a degree in architecture from NC State, but it was always cabins for me. My parents lived in a cabin, and then growing up making them with toys—I guess they kind of felt like home for me. I worked for another builder for a while before finally going out on my own right after Lucy was born.”
“The ones I saw online are beautiful,” I say, grabbing a loaf of bread off a shelf before cringing at the ingredient list and putting it back. “Is that why your hands look like you’ve been in a fight with barbed wire?” I ask, eyeing his scar-covered fingers draped over the handle of his cart.
He chuckles, making a fist with one of his hands to examine the faded lines that are slashed across them. “Most of these are from logs.” He pauses, smile wide. “A select few are from bad teenage decisions.”
I laugh under my breath, ponytail whipping across my back as I shake my head and start pushing my cart again.
“How did you start doing what you do?” he asks, watching me read labels, cringe at ingredients, and put food back on the shelf.
“Not as fun as Lincoln Logs,” I smile. “I know there’s a good chance I’ll never get to be old, so I figured it would be a great way to live my life. Experience a chapter I might not get to otherwise. It was either that or be a teacher, but since I got to be a kid, old people it is.”
His nod is subtle as I read another label and groan. “God, I hate buying bread. Whatever happened to flour, water, and salt?”
“You know, I’m always wondering that,” he deadpans.
I shoot him a look .
“Tell me about your wife,” I say.
“Hmm…” His cheeks fill with air before deflating. “I don’t really know what there is to tell. She never wanted kids; I always imagined she’d outgrow that. She got pregnant and we fell apart.” His words hit my sternum like a wrecking ball, but I must hide it well because he continues. “Then she went to Nashville or wherever she is.” He shrugs, as if it’s just that simple.
I clear my throat, staring at the back of a bottle of juice I can’t focus on. “Do you miss her?”
His response is immediate. “For Lucy.”
I put aloe juice in my cart, earning a look from him that makes me chuckle despite the shock of his words.
He clears his throat. “You know, you had a look on your face when you met her. Like you’d seen a ghost.”
The blood drains from my face in such a rush it makes me dizzy. Nauseous almost. I’ve stopped in the middle of the aisle and can’t make myself move as he leans on his cart next to me, waiting. Waiting for something I’ve never said out loud to anyone else.
“I’ve always wanted kids,” I say, half-truthing it.
“And?”
My mouth is dry, like it’s filled with sand. I’m not ready to tell him—or anyone.
“And I can’t have them.” I don’t look at him as I say it, and his pause makes me think he wants to ask more. Instead, he picks up a box of cookies.
When he sees me eyeing them, he shrugs and defensively says, “They’re organic. ”
I click my tongue with a shake of my head. “Oh, Bo, you have so much to learn.”
Then, leaving my least favorite topic in the aisle of overly processed sweets, we walk around the nearly empty grocery store. As I shop, he asks me about every item I buy. Why did you pick that one ? What are you going to do with that? What does that even taste like? And my personal favorite, What do you have against red dye 40 ?
He’s quizzing me in the cereal aisle and a voice interrupts the music over the speaker. “Good evening, shoppers, just a friendly reminder, we will be closing in ten minutes.”
Bo responds with a loud, “Boo!”
At the register, Monica has a knowing smile on her face as she talks to us. “Birdie, I didn’t know you had a boyfriend. You need to bring this man around more often!”
Before I can correct her, Bo says, “Monica, I keep telling her the same thing.”
I roll my eyes at them both, but I’m also smiling as we walk out of the automatic doors together and put the groceries in my trunk.
He leans against his Jeep that’s parked in the next space as I do the same against the minivan. Then it’s the looking: me at him, him at me.
“Bo.” I say his name because the silence is charged. Heavy.
He smiles one of his slow-to-grow smiles, arms crossed over his chest. “Birdie.”
I shake my head and roll my eyes .
“Now what? When do we start this Birdie Comes to Life school?”
He laughs softly, but the pause that follows—the way his eyes search mine—makes me want to rip out of my own skin. Anxious.
I open my mouth at the same time he unfolds his arms, pushes off the side of his Jeep with a familiar step that puts him in front of me, pressing one palm on the minivan by my head. He leans in close—so close his Bo Mountain Breeze consumes my senses and makes my knees buckle. When I imagine sliding the door of the minivan open, I clench my hands into fists at my side.
“You’re too pretty to be spending your Friday nights alone at grocery stores,” he says, voice low. Between his tone, what he says, and the way his beard barely scrapes against my skin, I stop breathing. Unsure of what he’s doing or what’s coming next. What I want to come next.
A quick move of his free hand and his palm settles at the base of my throat then slides up the side of my neck where two fingers stop and press gently to the spot just beneath my jaw.
I suck in a breath, my own heart pounding against his fingers. I press into the balls of my feet, pushing my back firmly against the van.
“What are you doing?” I ask with a whisper, not pulling my eyes off his. The truth is, I don’t care. Standing here with him looking at me with fingers pressed against my pulse point is more than physical, it’s intimate. Like him feeling my beating heart is him feeling a me I’ve yet to meet .
“I’m feeling you come alive,” he says, leaning forward slightly. A move that makes my lips part.
When his eyes drop to my mouth, they linger, then close, tight. As if the moment is a log being sawed in half, his jaw clenches at the same time his hand pulls away.
The instant he does, my breath rushes out of me in a gust, and I bring my own hands to my neck. As if trying to replicate a touch I never will.
We stand, staring at each other, inches between us, but there’s something crackling in the space. An exchange happening of something I can’t place.
Without a word, I slip into the driver’s seat of the van, my pulse pounding in my ears, and blow out another shaky breath as I buckle my seatbelt.
What just happened?
When I roll my window down, he takes it as an invitation to press a palm to either side of the opening, the sinewy lines of his arms on full display, and rounds his back slightly until his eyes meet mine.
“I can’t be with you, Bo,” I say, mustering every ounce of forced gumption.
“I can’t be with you either.”
“Then you can’t touch me like that again.” I shake my head “It’s confusing and…” Feels too good . “If we’re going to do this little list of yours, it has to be as friends. ”
He nods. “I know.” He looks away from me, studying something across the parking lot before looking back, and when his eyes meet mine again, he pushes to a stand.
“‘Night, Birdie,” he says.
“‘Night, Bo.”
As I drive away, all I can think is: What did I just agree to?