More Than Sorry

6: She Confronts the Boy

EDEN

Just my luck. I've picked the shopping cart with the wobbly wheel. My hands rumble underneath the cart's red handle like I'm holding onto the world's most boring rollercoaster, and the annoying clackety-clack announces my arrival down every aisle.

Heads turn, staring.

Oh, great. I have always dreamed of having an audience when I grab tampons off the shelf. I toss the box in the cart. This late-night humiliation is all Andie's fault. I could have avoided this whole damn trip if she ate food like a normal person.

Andie has this whole deadlifting slash gym obsession, as well as zero—and I mean absolutely zero—skills in the kitchen. No shit, I saw her burn a pot of water once. Apparently, that talent means she made it to thirty with an empty fridge and living off these hideous drinks she tries to pass off as a smoothie. Sorry, but no. Ain't nothing smooth about a drink that has ten different powders dumped in it and smells like ass.

After five days of camping out on Andie's daybed and surviving on a constant stream of takeout, I need to get my life back on track.

I've already taken the first step. This morning, I scored a fantastic rental—a little ground-floor apartment in The Rocks. Even though I'm looking forward to having my own place again, it doesn't mean I'm not an emotional wreck. Andie's my crutch right now. When I can't sleep, or the tears are too much, she's always there. I'm more than a bit scared I'll fall apart without her strength propping me up.

In the long run, I know I'm gonna be okay. Short-term solution? Eat away my feelings.

Now that every item is ticked off my shopping list and stacked in the cart, I turn down the aisle for what I really came for—chocolate, lollies, all that good stuff. I'll head down to the freezer section for ice cream before I hit the registers too. Later tonight,  Andie will probably make some snide comment about me getting a fatter ass, and I'm going to smile and stuff another spoon full of ice cream in my gob just to spite her.

That damn wonky wheel clackety-clacks as I make my way down the aisle. The next bump sends my tiny handbag sliding across the plastic baby seat. It hits the side of the cart with a jolt, and the rental papers I hastily shoved in earlier soar across the aisle like a paper airplane.

Those papers are my ticket to freedom and my own fridge full of actual, real food. I dart after them like my life depends on it. But my heels are no better than ice skates on the slick concrete floor, and I skitter along, almost face planting in the middle of the supermarket.

God, I hope no one saw this latest display of embarrassment. My eyes fly down the aisle to check. I freeze.

Zach.

My heart is in my throat. Butterflies flutter in my tummy, but I can't tell if it's because of how much I still love looking at him or if it's panic. There's pain there too. Betrayal cuts deep and sharp.

He hasn't noticed me.

His shopping basket sits by his expensive black dress shoes, suit and hair as immaculate as always. Deep in thought, his eyebrows pinch together. He closely examines a block of chocolate in his right hand before his head jerks to look at the block held in his left. The man certainly seems serious about chocolate.

I jam my rental papers back into my purse and take a death grip on the shopping cart to make my escape. But that cursed wobbly wheel screeches out, and the timing couldn't be worse.

Zach's head snaps up.

Our eyes meet for a split second. Like the night we first met in that karaoke bar. I was on the ground searching for my lipstick, only to find his eyes searching for me. Zach's sweet, uncertain smile is the same. So is the hopeful look in his big, dumb eyes. But unlike that first night, there's no promise of magic this time, only pain.