“No, no. It’s fine. It’s not supposed to be that bad this weekend,” I reassured him, though uncertainty crept into my voice.
I watched how rapidly he began blinking, as if mentally calculating how long he could function without Wi-Fi and steady cell service before losing his sanity.
Even though I planned for us to be in and out that weekend, I found myself grabbing a few extra items…justin case. We wandered the aisles, tossing in everything we could think of—hearty soups, bags of chips, chocolate,bread, eggs, bacon, bottled water, orange juice, and of course....wine. I grabbed three bottles just for good measure.
“Just in case your ‘work emergencies’ follow us to the fireplace,” I said sweetly to Adrian, watching the mix of confusion and understanding flicker across his face.
He glanced at me with uncertainty, clearly debating whether I was serious.
Good.
As I turned the cart down a narrow seasonal aisle, something on the middle shelf caught my eye—a little snowglobe. It wasn’t extravagant, nor did it appear to be new, with its glass slightly fogged over from years of dust. Inside was a tiny airplane poised at an angle that suggested it was ready to take flight into a swirl of white glitter.
I froze.
For a moment, everything around me fell into a hushed silence—the faint hum of the freezer, the distant chatter of other shoppers, and even Adrian rustling with a bag of plain Lays chips behind me seemed to fade away. All I could see was that enchanting little plane.
It reminded me of Bryce.
Not the arguments or the heartbreak… just the way he used to talk about flying and disappearing into clouds when life felt too heavy for him.
I swallowed hard.
I couldn’t explain why it tugged at me the way it did, but something within me whispered,buy it,and I’d long since learned to heed those subtle nudges. So, with a gentle hand, I reached for it. The snow inside swirled gracefully as I lifted it from the shelf, and tiny flakes floated around the airplane like a delicate storm in slow motion.
I placed it carefully in the cart beside the wine.
Adrian glanced down at it. “You like snowglobes, huh?”
“Today I do,” I replied, shrugging slightly, as I pushed the cart forward before he could pry any further.
When we reached the register, Mr. Griffin rang everything up on the same clunky machine he’d had since forever.
“That’ll be $168.22,” he said, bagging the last loaf of bread.
Adrian patted his front pockets… then his back ones… then his coat… then the front again like auditioning for America’s Got No Funds.
“Uh… one second.”
I narrowed my eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“I… think I might’ve dropped my wallet in that store we stopped at for gas before we headed out,” Adrian answered slowly.
He checked his coat again, apparently hoping determination would make it appear.
“I had it when we left. Damn.”
Mr. Griffin raised one eyebrow, tapping the receipt on the counter like that wasn’t his first rodeo—calm, but judging.
“You sure?” I asked.
“Positive. I had it when I got gas; that’s how I paid.”
I blew out a breath of frustration and pulled out my card. “It’s fine. I got it.”
There were people waiting behind us, and I didn’t want to stand there discussing apotentiallymissing wallet.
Mr. Griffin looked between us and cleared his throat. “Well… things like this happen to the best of us.”
