As surprising as it is that this store has so many artisanal items, there are no ready-to-eat meals or canned craft lattes. Only rows and rows of ingredients that require a multistep process to result in something remotely edible. Eventually I manage to find essentials that don’t require much, if any, prep—water, cereal, milk, and microwavable meals that are chock-full of preservatives and sodium that I normally wouldn’t consume, but desperate times…
When I unload my haul into the basket Gavin’s holding, I notice it’s still empty. Instead of shopping, he’s been studying each item on the shelf. Apparently there isn’t a task he doesn’t take seriously.
“Are you ready?” I ask. My eye catches the girl in overalls down the aisle. I smile at her, and she smiles back.
“Yeah, just a sec.” He puts the vial back, muttering, “Saffron usually costs five times as much as this anywhere else.”
My brow quirks. Since when does he know about the prices of obscure spices?
“That’s because they’re grown locally,” the girl says, startling us.
Gavin and I crane our necks to face her. That’s when I notice she’s emptying contents from her basket onto the shelf and not the other way around.
“These were grown here?” Gavin says with forced interest. Or at least, that’s what I’m assuming, since no one gets that excited over a spice.
She nods proudly.
“Is this your product?” I say curiously. She looks too young to be a…I’m not even sure what to call it. A saffron grower?
“The saffron? No.” She picks up a different bottle off the shelf and shows us. “But the honey is from my family’s bee farm.”
“Cool,” Gavin says, taking it from her and adding it to our basket. We thank her and move to the next aisle, where Gavin loads his basket with wild mushrooms and Parmigiano-Reggiano and…is that truffle oil? And he callsmedelusional. Who does he expect is going to cook for us, Mom? I’m about to call him out for his unrealistic expectations when I get distracted by a revolving stand of cheap flip-flops that I get overexcited about. I don’t wait to purchase them before tearing the tag off a pair and slipping them on. The state of the ground from the house to the convenience store, crumbling or cracked on every square inch, must be the worst I’ve stepped on. And as someone who’s gone to several fashion shoots in third-world countries, I have stepped on some of the most uncultivated ground. By now my blisters have blisters. As soon as my arches melt into the synthetic rubber soles, I sigh. Sweet relief.
On the counter I place the price tag of the flip-flops along with the items Gavin unloads from our basket. We nod politely at the cashier. He grunts, presumably a hello, before he starts adding the items into an old-timey cash register that’s a type of old that’s historical. I wonder if it’s in workable condition. Sure enough, the keys on the machine manually move a tiny plate that stamps the corresponding symbol of each key onto the paper receipt. Between the cashier’s mannerisms, which are as ill-fashioned as his attire, and the clickety-clack of a machine that belongs in a museum, I’m not sure where I am or when I am. What’s next? Ma has dysentery?
“That’ll be thirty-nine even.” His gruff voice startles us. Then he cranks a wheel that pushes the paper out, and he tears a piece off and hands it to us. Gavin is just as mesmerized as I am, staring at the receipt in his hand.
“What are you waiting for?” I say to Gavin when he doesn’t move. “Pay the guy.”
Gavin puts a hand in his pocket. A split second later, he tenses up. After patting down his other pockets, he deflates. “Yeah, I left my wallet at home,” he confirms. “Elena.” He stares at me expectantly.
My head jerks back, leveling my gaze with his. “Elenawhat?” I balk. “Don’t tell me you expect me to pay? Weren’t you the one who said you could manage buying the groceries without me?”
His nostrils flare. “Weren’t you the one bragging about havingall this money?” he counters while doing an imaginary hair flip.
I don’t know what’s more insulting—the accusation that this is somehow my fault, or that he honestly thinks that I’m so thirsty for attention that I’d stoop to something as basic as hair-flipping. What’s next, twirling chewing gum around my finger?
“All of my money’s in a bank account, remember? And I haven’tcarried a wallet in years. Don’t you have a debit card or something? Since you’re so responsible?” I seethe.
“Elena,” he says through gritted teeth, “all of that is on Apple Pay, and we can’t use our phones anymore, remember?” He points a finger to his head, as if to remind me I have a brain and should consider using it sometimes.
It’s about now that I notice the cashier of dubious intentions watching us with intense curiosity. He’s got that type of lethal combination of mullet and haphazard denim on denim that says he was born with a suspended driver’s license. With his series of reckless decisions so bold, I can only guess what he’s capable of. And if I’m not mistaken, has his glare become more menacing?
Gavin waits expectantly, as if the problem is going to solve itself, which, considering how he’s gotten through life so far, tracks. So, once again, it’s up to me to get us out of this mess. As a natural problem-solver, I’ve been able to get out of a lot of things. Speeding tickets, late fees, indecent proposals from wealthy shipping magnates…butinsufficient funds? I’m in uncharted territory here. In my panic, images of us washing pots and pans to pay off our debt flash before my eyes.
“I can spot you if you don’t have any cash with you.” The girl from earlier appears from behind us, and just in time. I was beginning to think indentured servitude was our only option.
“Thank you,” I say, at the same time that Gavin says, “No, we can’t impose.”
She pauses, unsure of how to proceed. When we don’t move, she makes an executive decision and hands the cashier two twenty-dollar bills.
“Thanks, Hal,” she says when she receives her change. Despite her cheerful disposition, he gives her the same grunt in response,making me realize the guy’s attitude toward us is not personal but one of general disgruntlement. And it’s no wonder. If I lived here—permanently, that is—I’d be perpetually angry too.
“Thanks for spotting us,” Gavin says before we leave the store.
“No problem.” She hesitates. “I don’t think I’ve met you before. I’m Callie,” she says.
“Gavin.” He sticks his hand out awkwardly, then retracts it to wave at her.
