They weren’t even my favorites, but suddenly they were an extravagance. I headed for the produce department, where I spotted the BUY ONE , GET ONE FREE sign above the potatoes. I dug into the giant mound, counting out six bags. Someone stepped up to pick through the loose baking potatoes beside me. He chose one and dropped it into his handbasket alongside a T-bone steak and a small bunch of fresh green beans. I had this silly urge to start a conversation with “Hello, single-steak guy. I’m crazy potato girl.” Then I glanced up and realized, with a gurgly choking sound, that it was him.
James.
He turned, no doubt alerted by the embarrassing noise I’d just made, and spied me standing there with a bag of potatoes clutched in each hand. One of his eyebrows cocked upward.
“Hello,” he said.
“Um, hello.”
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”
“Right. Yeah.” A nervous laugh erupted from my throat. I snapped my mouth shut and plopped the potatoes into my cart. “You, uh . . . shop here?”
He lifted his basket to indicate that yes, he did, indeed, shop here.
“Stupid question.” I grimaced.
“The prices are good,” he said. “I’ve been comparing.”
A bargain shopper? Reesa would be devastated. “Research for a home ec project?” I said, “Or, uh . . . just a hobby?”
The corners of his lips tweaked up a tiny bit. “Trying to save money. That’s all.”
I glanced toward my haul. “My mother sent me. She’s preparing for Armageddon, apparently.”
“That’s a lot of potatoes.” He peered from my cart into his own basket. “My groceries are feeling a little intimidated.”
My laugh came out normal this time, and I felt like an almost-regular person for a second. Until a tall, tattooed figure approached. I tried to blink him away but he kept coming.
“Are you following me?” said Lennie. He was wearing a green apron with the Save-a-Cent logo across his broad chest.
“No, I . . . uh, you work here?” Again, my grasp of the obvious was stunning.
“Nah, I just like wearing the uniform.” Lennie hitched his thumbs under the straps of his apron, like a farmer tugging on his overalls. “Fetching, isn’t it?”
He looked around me and spotted James, wiped his hand on his apron, and reached his tattooed arm out to shake.
“Hi. I’m Lennie.”
“James,” said James. He took Lennie’s hand and pumped it twice.
My heart was thumping double time but my brain seemed to be working in slow motion. I should’ve noticed the evil grin that came across Lennie’s face and hurried out of there. But I wasn’t fast enough.
“You want some bananas?” Lennie leaned over my cart and spoke in one of those conspiratorial whispers loud enough to wake the dead. “I got some in the back I’m supposed to trash. They’ve only got a few brown spots, though.”
I shook my head. “No. No thank you.”
“You sure?” He was trying to embarrass me in front of James and doing a fine job. “I could set some aside for you. That was your bike I saw parked out behind the Dumpster, wasn’t it?”
“I . . . I don’t need bananas.” I pleaded with my eyes. Please don’t do this to me.
He glanced at James. “How ’bout you, Jimbo? Bananas?”
I bowed my head in a silent prayer that a trapdoor would appear in the dingy linoleum and swallow me whole. But James responded as if free, overripe produce was offered to him every day. He didn’t even flinch at the nickname Lennie had given him.
“Thanks, man,” he said. “Another time?”
“You bet,” said Lennie. He made a clicking sound and pointedhis finger at James like it was a gun, then holstered it in his apron pocket. He sauntered to the double doors at the back of the produce area and pushed them open saloon style.
I exhaled.
“Your friend is . . .” James paused.
“He’s not my friend,” I blurted. “I hardly know the guy. He’s . . . I think he’s a drug dealer.”
“Oh. Well . . . he seemed cool.”
Way to
James.
He turned, no doubt alerted by the embarrassing noise I’d just made, and spied me standing there with a bag of potatoes clutched in each hand. One of his eyebrows cocked upward.
“Hello,” he said.
“Um, hello.”
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”
“Right. Yeah.” A nervous laugh erupted from my throat. I snapped my mouth shut and plopped the potatoes into my cart. “You, uh . . . shop here?”
He lifted his basket to indicate that yes, he did, indeed, shop here.
“Stupid question.” I grimaced.
“The prices are good,” he said. “I’ve been comparing.”
A bargain shopper? Reesa would be devastated. “Research for a home ec project?” I said, “Or, uh . . . just a hobby?”
The corners of his lips tweaked up a tiny bit. “Trying to save money. That’s all.”
I glanced toward my haul. “My mother sent me. She’s preparing for Armageddon, apparently.”
“That’s a lot of potatoes.” He peered from my cart into his own basket. “My groceries are feeling a little intimidated.”
My laugh came out normal this time, and I felt like an almost-regular person for a second. Until a tall, tattooed figure approached. I tried to blink him away but he kept coming.
“Are you following me?” said Lennie. He was wearing a green apron with the Save-a-Cent logo across his broad chest.
“No, I . . . uh, you work here?” Again, my grasp of the obvious was stunning.
“Nah, I just like wearing the uniform.” Lennie hitched his thumbs under the straps of his apron, like a farmer tugging on his overalls. “Fetching, isn’t it?”
He looked around me and spotted James, wiped his hand on his apron, and reached his tattooed arm out to shake.
“Hi. I’m Lennie.”
“James,” said James. He took Lennie’s hand and pumped it twice.
My heart was thumping double time but my brain seemed to be working in slow motion. I should’ve noticed the evil grin that came across Lennie’s face and hurried out of there. But I wasn’t fast enough.
“You want some bananas?” Lennie leaned over my cart and spoke in one of those conspiratorial whispers loud enough to wake the dead. “I got some in the back I’m supposed to trash. They’ve only got a few brown spots, though.”
I shook my head. “No. No thank you.”
“You sure?” He was trying to embarrass me in front of James and doing a fine job. “I could set some aside for you. That was your bike I saw parked out behind the Dumpster, wasn’t it?”
“I . . . I don’t need bananas.” I pleaded with my eyes. Please don’t do this to me.
He glanced at James. “How ’bout you, Jimbo? Bananas?”
I bowed my head in a silent prayer that a trapdoor would appear in the dingy linoleum and swallow me whole. But James responded as if free, overripe produce was offered to him every day. He didn’t even flinch at the nickname Lennie had given him.
“Thanks, man,” he said. “Another time?”
“You bet,” said Lennie. He made a clicking sound and pointedhis finger at James like it was a gun, then holstered it in his apron pocket. He sauntered to the double doors at the back of the produce area and pushed them open saloon style.
I exhaled.
“Your friend is . . .” James paused.
“He’s not my friend,” I blurted. “I hardly know the guy. He’s . . . I think he’s a drug dealer.”
“Oh. Well . . . he seemed cool.”
Way to
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