She clears her throat, jutting out her chin. “Someone sick?”
He looks down at the package, shoving it into the basket. “Something like that.”
She gives a small smile, her features sympathetic. “Well, I hope they get better.”
She’s nice too.
She starts to move past, but he just can’t help it. He enjoys inflicting pain on himself, you see.
So, rather than moving to a different cashier like a sane person, he finds himself in the line behind her. She types furiously into her cellphone as she gets rung out, her mouth pursed, her eyebrows drawn. He wants to know who’s disturbing her and if he needs to have a word with them. He sees there’s not much on the belt and watches as she absentmindedly shoves her card into the machine with more force than necessary before cracking her fingers as she reads whatever message comes through.
The cashier, a young kid with a smattering of freckles, clears his throat.
“Ma’am?”
She looks up from her phone, a tightness to her features.
“Your card declined.”
He examines the machine and?—
Yeah, those black letters are blocky and bold.
He shifts, watching as her eyebrows pinch even closer. She removes the card, wiping it against her stomach.
“Sorry, it’s an old card,” she says, clearing her throat. “Might have typed in the pin wrong.” She inserts it again with shaky fingers. The anxiety rolls off her in waves, and he can’t seem to tolerate the idea of her not feeling okay. Before he can really think about it, he’s clearing his throat, pulling the piece of plastic from the card reader before it declines again.
“Baby,” he says, slipping her card into her back pocket and pulling out his own. “I told you to order a new card last week.”
Coaxing her to the side with a hand on her arm, he turns to the red-faced cashier.
“She’s so busy with work, she must have forgotten. She’s been making so many sales. She got Employee of the Month, you know,” he says evenly as he removes the divider, pushing his items with hers.
“Just put everything together for me. This woman, I tell you,incrediblypersuasive. Right?” He takes in her furrowed eyebrows and pursed lips before inserting his own card. “She’s so modest.” He steps back, gathering all the bags as the boy hands him the receipt. “Thanks, man. Happy Fourth of July,” Roman says with a hand against her back.
He guides them out of the automatic doors, into the parking lot. The sounds of customers pushing their carts across the concrete, crying babies, and trunks slamming shut greet him. If possible, the temperature seems to have spiked at least ten degrees since he stepped inside. He walks with her, making sure they’re in the shade of a few palm trees and the building’s slated roof before turning to face her.
He holds out her bags, the oppressive humidity making his palm clammy against the plastic, sweat rolling down his side.
She stands, basking in the sun’s rays, the light making her skin glow.
Jesus.
“Why did you do that?” She asks, blinking rapidly.
He shrugs, his hand slightly lowering. “I’m sure you would’ve done the same.”
Her eyes flit to the cars in the lot before meeting his gaze again.
“No. I wouldn’t have.”
He blinks at her candid admission, not expecting it but pleasantly surprised anyway. His lips turn upward as she takes the bag from him. He rubs his jaw with his free hand and clears his throat.
“You know, most people would say thank you.”
She looks up, her grip tightening on the bag.
“Thanks,” she murmurs, moving to walk past him. “Sorry for the trouble.”
