What is wrong with me?
Derek and I broke up six months ago, and I swore I was done with men for at least a year. Maybe five years. Maybe forever. I was going to focus on Tommy and on rebuilding my life.
And now I’m out here kissing firefighters like I’m collecting them.
I press my hands over my face and groan into the darkness.
This is bad. This is so bad.
But the worst part? I don’t regret it.
The grocery store on Wednesday afternoon is exactly as thrilling as it sounds.
I’m in the cereal aisle debating whether Tommy needs the sugar-bomb cereal he’s been begging for when I hear my name.
“Rachel Morgan! Oh, sweetheart!”
I turn to find Dorothy Williams making her way toward me with her cane, face lit up.
“Dorothy! Hi!” I abandon the cereal debate and meet her halfway. “How are you feeling?”
“Oh, I’m fine, dear. Just fine.” She pats my arm with her free hand. “But I’ve been thinking about you constantly since thatawful fire. I still can’t believe you and little Tommy were trapped in there.”
“We got out. That’s what matters.”
“Thanks to those brave firefighters.” She shakes her head. “I was just there minutes before it happened. Minutes! If I’d stayed to finish my coffee like I usually do…”
“But you didn’t. You’re okay. We’re all okay.”
She squeezes my arm. “You’re such a strong girl. Losing your job like that, on top of everything else. How are you managing?”
“I’m looking for work. Something will turn up.” I try to sound more confident than I feel. “The café owners are trying to get repairs started, but it’s complicated with the investigation and insurance.”
“Well, if you need anything—and I mean anything—you call me. I may be old, but I can still cook a decent meal, and I’m an excellent babysitter.” Her eyes twinkle. “Tommy’s such a sweet boy. He reminds me of my grandson at that age.”
“That’s really kind of you. I might take you up on that.”
We chat for a few more minutes before she heads off to find her groceries. I’m reaching for the bland healthy cereal when I spot someone down the aisle.
A man in his late twenties, with dark hair, is checking his phone while leaning against the shelf. Something about him seems familiar, but I can’t place it. Maybe I’ve seen him around town?
He looks up, catches me staring, and gives a half-wave before disappearing around the corner.
I shake it off and finish my shopping.
The job interview is at Morgan’s Home Goods, a small retail store on Main Street that sells everything from kitchen supplies to seasonal decorations. The owner, Harriet, called yesterday about a part-time sales associate position.
It’s not glamorous. It’s not even exciting. But it’s work, and I need work.
Harriet is nice enough. Mid-fifties, efficient handshake, asks standard interview questions about customer service and availability. I’m answering something about my experience managing the café when the door chimes.
An elderly woman walks in, probably seventies, with styled silver hair and an aura that screams old money and older opinions.
“Patricia!” Harriet stands up. “I’ll be right with you. Just finishing up here.”
Patricia’s eyes land on me. She looks me up and down with a look that makes you feel like you’re being graded on a scale you didn’t know existed.
“Take your time, dear.” But she doesn’t move away. Just stands there, radiating judgment.
