Down on one knee, I survey the grocery devastation. It’s worse than I thought. A carton of eggs spilled open, four of them cracked and broken, two whole, but resting in mint chip goo. A pint of milk is warm to the touch, as is the block of cheddar cheese.
How long was this bag sitting here, anyway? Rescuing the unbroken eggs, I return them to the carton, tucking it in next to the shaving cream. But that move displaces a box of mac and cheese, and underneath?
The red and white prescription bag screams at me, the label too bignotto read. Clonazepam. The same little yellow pills I keep in a plastic container in my back pocket. My panic attacks don’t come often anymore, but when they do, they’re more intense than ever.
Quickly, I shove the pills under a package of warm steak. It would have been easy to read the guy’s name, but I’ve invaded his privacy enough, and if he’s out of his meds...I’m not going to keep them from him for another second.
The porch is as unadorned as the yard. Except for a single sign at eye level.
Leave all packages directly in front of the door, ring the bell, and walk away. Occupant will not answer and cannot sign for anything.
Setting the bag down, I eye the video-enabled doorbell, then push the button. A chime sounds inside, and I turn, ready to walk away, when I hear an audible click.
“Thank you,” the pained, soft voice says through the speaker. “I called the store earlier, but they wouldn’t—”
“Do you need me to replace any of this stuff?” I ask. “You’re down to eight eggs, your meat is probably spoiled, and I’m pretty sure your bread is…shit. I was going to say toast, but that’s taking a bad pun way too far.”
His laugh isn’t relaxed, but some of his distress eases. “No. I’ll…I’ll get by. The guy who delivers on Saturdays isn’t as much of a dick.”
“This happens on the regular? Fuck, dude. You need to talk to a manager or something. You shouldn’t have to pay to replace everything.”
“It’s okay. I’m used to it. Thank you. Really. Uh…?”
“Graham.” Pausing, hoping to get his name, I stare at the solid wood door, the single, barred window. But there’s only silence, so I shove one hand into my pocket and head down the ramp. I’m almost out of earshot when the locksthunk,one at a time, and the door opens slowly.
Silhouetted in a faint light, he’s a little taller than I am. Maybe six-foot-two? Short, dark hair, a neatly trimmed beard. “Quinton,” he says, then grunts as he bends down slowly to pick up the bag. “I’m Quinton.”
There’s a vulnerability to him, despite the broad chest and the well-muscled arms. His jeans are loose around his legs, and he moves carefully, taking two steps back so the glow from the interior light falls across his face.
He’s drop dead gorgeous. Except for the fear so evident in his eyes.
“You’re welcome. Quinton. Good night.”
With a single nod, and maybe a half-smile, he shuts the door, and though I should go home, I turn on my heel and head in the opposite direction. The night manager at the grocery store is going to get an earful.
* * *
Quinton
As soon as I shuffle back into my kitchen, I paw through the bag for my meds. My anxiety has been on overdrive all day, and my hands are shaking.
Clementine, the little orange kitten I found half-starved to death on my front porch a month ago, curls around my ankles and squeaks, begging for a treat. I pop open the jar I keep on the counter and drop a small handful for her. The little thing curled up in my lap all afternoon, purring, and I think she’s the only reason I didn’t end up having a full-blown panic attack.
Over a pint of ice cream.
One year ago today, my brother saved my life. Rescued me from my ex who had me convinced I’d never walk again. Who was doing everything he could to keep me dependent on him, drugging me with a cocktail of meds that kept my thoughts so muddled, I couldn’t see what he was doing to me.
Alec hated ice cream. When we started dating, he told me how bad it was for me. Lectured me for an hour about the horrors of dairy milk, of sugar, about how I should stick to popsicles. I wanted to make him happy. So, I gave up my favorite comfort food. For him. After that, it was coffee. Mexican food. Cookies. Beer.
Then my friends. My ability to walk. And finally, my freedom.
Today, all I wanted was a pint of mint chip and my damn pills. Instead, I have a mess to clean up. The crackers are destroyed, my bread practically mush after sitting in melted ice cream all afternoon, and everything perishable is spoiled. Almost three quarters of the order needs to go right in the dumpster. Outside. Where each step feels like climbing a mountain and I’m lucky if I don’t hyperventilate until I pass out.
It takes me an hour to deal with the mess, and once I have the trash bagged up, I spend a good ten minutes watching the back door security camera. I shouldn’t be so paranoid. I haven’t heard a peep from Alec since Connor threatened to beat the shit out of him if he ever came near me again.
But between the agoraphobia I can’t kick and the pain that plagues my every step, going outside—even though the dumpster is all of five feet away—is scarier than jumping out of a plane. Without a parachute.
At least it’s flat. And well lit. I flip the three deadbolts, check the camera one more time, and then shuffle into the alley, my heart pounding. By the time I’m back inside, I feel like I just ran a marathon.
