“Thanks for coming with me. Now I have an excuse to drive north to the grocery in Winnetka. It’s the only one I know around here, and grocery stores can be scary places.”
“They can?”
“I get Fresh Direct in New York. Haven’t been in a grocery store in years.”
“You’ve been here three weeks.”
“My point exactly.”
We drove north talking about nothing in particular. I grew quiet because I know driving makes Alex nervous.
“You’re not talking.”
“You’re concentrating.”
“I’m not going to kill you, Sam. I’m not blind.”
“I don’t think that. I was being considerate.”
He threw me a scowl.
“You want me to talk? Fine. How was your day?”
“That’s better.” He smiled. “Cole was good today. Got in a bit of a fight with a Chicago detective, but they’ll get through it. I think he likes her.”
“He needs a girlfriend.”
“Does he?” His tone lifted suggestively.
Are we talking about Cole?
“Yes. Why hasn’t he had one? Four books and no girl. It’s odd. A relationship would help your market grow.”
“My market’s growing just fine.” He glanced over at me and smiled. I thought he was going to hide in the banter and not answer my question, but he looked back at the road and started talking.
“Cole doesn’t see women clearly. He doesn’t understand what they want from him, and he fears he’ll disappoint. Think about what you already know. He disappointed his dad and never got to make it right before his dad was killed. His mom blames him for that. His one brother holds it over his head, and every woman has betrayed him one way or another. I don’t know that he can let a woman in. It’s a risk.”
“Probably one worth taking—with the right girl.”
“You think?”
I thought about Josh, but there was no way this conversation was turning to my relationships. “In theory, yes. In experience, I don’t know.”
We pulled into the grocery store and that ended it. We both needed a change of subject. But if I’d known what was coming next, I would’ve launched into Josh. He might have been safer . . .
Everyone knows you begin shopping on the outside aisles of a grocery store and work your way across. Produce first.
Dairy last—or however the particular circle works. Not Alex. Straight to the center and then some pinball push outward.
We started in cookies. I never go down that aisle—not enough disposable income. And I don’t eat many sweets. Yet here we stood, surveying a thousand packages of cookies. He grabbed some Fig Newtons and I stood stymied by the Oreos. I almost cried. I turned quickly to walk on, but Alex noticed.
“You want to explain?” He pointed to the Oreos. “Pretty strong reaction to creamy vanilla goodness inside two crispy chocolate wafers.”
“Shut up.” I smiled. I wanted to share, because on some level I believe Alex is safe—slightly safe. I don’t feel nervous with him as I did with Josh, like one butterfly was always flying loose.
I ventured out and described Mrs. Chapman, my first foster mom. “My . . . aunt used to give me three Oreos each day after school. It was first grade. I sat in her lap and she read to me while we ate. Every single day.” I fingered one of the packages. “I loved her, I think. I haven’t thought about that in a long time.”
“Where is she now?”
