Mug rack freshly filled, we turn back to the register. She takes another piece of popcorn as I fit the two smaller boxes into the largest one for her to take with her.
We stare at the gift basket in front of us, an array of my favorite foods in front of me.
“You may hate him, but he fucking knows you.”
I raise an eyebrow at her.
“All of your favorite snacks in one basket? The man is speaking your love language.”
“He doesn’t know that.”
She cocks her head to the side, staring at the spread. “Wait a second. Didn’t you post that once?”
“Post what?”
“That snacks are your love language.”
She pulls her phone out of her pocket and throws it on the counter in front of us, quickly navigating to my Instagram and scrolling. She stops when she hits a picture of my dining room table filled with my favorites. My grandmother, before she died, would do that for me every once in a while—buy every single snack she’s ever seen me enjoy and leave them on the kitchen table for me to discover when I got home from school or came to visit during college.
And underneath, I captioned the photo “snacks are my love language.”
Izzy starts snickering. “He cyberstalked you.”
I shake my head. “Of course he did. He’s trying to butter me up.”
She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.
“Oh, not like that!”
She reaches into the basket for a Twizzler. “What do you think he wants from you?”
I harrumph. “I don’t know yet. But it must be important if he’s still trying to be nice.”
“He wants that sweet sunflower ass,” she says, reading over the card.
I grab it from her and bury it within the candy. “Bye Izzy.”
She grabs the other sleeve of candies before I realize what she’s doing. “Delivery fee,” she quips, as she turns and heads for the front of the store.
“Hey! Not fair! You took my favorite ones!”
She shoots me a big grin when she gets to the door. “Maybe Ryder Blackwell will buy you more if you ask himreallynicely.”
I snort. “Bye Izzy!”
“Let me know when you need more sunflower shit to sell,” she says as she steps outside.
“I will! Thank you!” I shout. And the door closes.
With a sigh, I sink down onto the stool again.
So Ryder Blackwell is cyberstalking me too.
I throw another chocolate in my mouth, scrolling through my pictures until I find a really beautiful sunset over the sunflower fields, with Ryder Blackwell’s new property framed perfectly in the background.
I post it with the caption:
Nice try, but a little bit of chocolate isn’t going to make things easier for you.
