Jade snatches my phone and holds it above my head, which isn’t hard since she’s got three inches on me. “No. We agreed. No phones during grocery shopping after what happened last time.”
“That was different. I was trying to calculate if the bulk yogurt was actually cheaper per ounce. That was responsible adulting.”
“You walked into a display of kombucha.”
“The kombucha was poorly placed. It was an ambush.” I make a grab for my phone, but she dances backward, nearly taking out an older woman examining bananas.
We’re at the discount grocery store three blocks from campus—the one where you have to check expiration dates like you’re a forensic investigator at a crime scene. I’m clutching our shopping list, which basically reads:Whatever’s on sale and won’t give us food poisoning.
“You realize that exchanging messages doesn’t constitute a relationship, right?” Jade asks, still holding my phone hostage as she tosses a bag of almost-definitely-stale bagels into our cart.
“Who said anything about a relationship?” My voice comes out way too defensive. “We’re just…talking.”
“You talk to him more than you talk to actual humans.”
“You’re an actual human. I’m talking to you right now.” I grab the cheapest pasta I can find—the kind that’s probably ninety percent cardboard, ten percent wheat.
“Only because I’m physically preventing you from checking your messages.” She eyes the ninety-nine-cent pasta sauce I’m reaching for. “Spring for the dollar twenty-nine one. We’re not animals.”
“Speak for yourself. My bank account suggests otherwise.”
We continue to navigate the store like we’re in the discount grocery Olympics. It involves dodging the suspiciously cheap meat section, debating whether day-old bread is worth the savings, and playing our favorite game of “Is this cheese supposed to be that color?”
“He’s probably a forty-five-year-old troll living in his mother’s basement,” is Jade’s helpful contribution as we wait in the checkout line behind someone buying nothing but cat food and wine.
“He’s not—” I start, then stop. Because what do I actually know?
“You don’t even know the basics of this guy,” Jade continues, unloading our sad collection of college-student sustenance ontothe conveyor belt. “Like his last name. Or what he looks like. Or literally anything about him.”
“I think he’s in the music industry because he does seem to have some insider knowledge,” I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel.
“Or maybe he’s a girl.” Her eyes light up wickedly. “Using Anthony Devine photos because she knows your type.”
That stops me cold. I haven’t even considered…
I make a grab for my phone in her hand and manage to wrestle it from her. I immediately open my chat with AntD, ignoring Jade’s eye roll.
NickKnackPaddyWhack
You’re not a girl, are you?
The response comes quickly.
AntD
No. That’s a slightly random thing to ask me.
NickKnackPaddyWhack
Just Jade getting into my head. You know, because I don’t know who you actually are.
AntD
You know who I am, Nick. I think you know me better than anyone else.
I swallow, staring at the screen while the cashier tells us our total—forty-seven dollars and eighty-three cents for what will optimistically last us a week.
AntD is right. I do know who he is. I know he’s the guy who sends me philosophy memes in the middle of the night. Who remembered I had a presentation last week and asked how itwent. Who makes me laugh when I’m stress-eating junk food at two a.m. while trying to finish an assignment.
