FIVE
MICAH
I look at my grocery list again. It’s in Adam’s familiar handwriting, and I check and double-check it. He didn’t specify which brand of yogurt he wanted, though, and that’s always a landmine to navigate.
If I text to ask, he’ll get angry because I should remember which kind he prefers by now.
If I don’t and I get it wrong, he’ll berate me for not asking to begin with.
And I’m already dreading the checkout process.
If the cashier isn’t careful enough and something gets bruised, bent, or torn, he gets upset about that too. “Be more forceful with them!”he’ll tell me. “Don’t let them get away with treating our groceries like garbage just because they hate their jobs!”
But I can’t see myself being nasty to a cashier for anything like that.
I shove those thoughts away. Adam’s not here, and if I ask politely for the cashiers to take extra care with everything, they will. There’s no need to get stressed out about something that might not even happen.
Adam
Where are you?
I sigh at the text. He already knows. He has me on his family phone plan, and I know he has parental tracking enabled for me. This is a test, I know, and I hate it.
Micah
The grocery store. Which brand of yogurt do you want? The store brand is on sale right now.
Adam
The store brand tastes like mold.
Of course he doesn’t actually mention which brand hedoeswant. I glance at the shelf of yogurt and try to remember which of these brands he hasn’t complained about.
Somebody comes up next to me to grab a large container of yogurt. He has a big, hairy hand, and I instinctively glance at the man.
AtIlya.
My breath catches in my throat.
What is he doing here? I’m nowhere near the bar. Did he find out what I was trying to do? But there’s no way he could have. I haven’t even really left the house in the last five days since I met him.
It’s a coincidence, nothing more. Maybe he doesn’t even remember me. I focus on that, on pretending we aren’t both here. We’ll buy our yogurts in silence and never even utter a word to each other.
I wonder what Adam would think of me choosing the same type as theRussian trash.
I busy myself sifting through the yogurts, looking for the ones with the expiration dates that are the furthest out, and pretend I didn’t notice Ilya.
“Do you need help choosing one?” Ilya asks, his deep voice surprisingly soothing in a way it has no right to be for a mafia man with the violent history Adam had described. “What flavor are you looking for, Micah?”
“I—” I stumble over my words, trying to breathe. What do I do? I should blow him off, to get away from him as quickly as possible. Instead, I say, “Cherry. The fruit on the bottom kind.”
The kind I hate but eat anyway because it’s the only type Adam wants me to buy.
“I like this one,” Ilya says, pointing to one. After a second, he adds, “No, that’s a lie. I don’t like little soggy fruit pieces in my yogurt. But this is best brand from the ones I’ve tried.”
I try not to smile, but my lips curve into a little one anyway. “Thank you.” I sort through them by expiration date. “I like the cheesecake ones you can add the little crumbles to,” I tentatively add, though I’m not sure why I’m telling him that.
Ilya wrinkles his nose, and my heart drops. Of course he’s judging me. “Cheesecake is too sweet for me. But if you like sweet ones, you will probably like this coconut yogurt with the small chocolate chips.”
