The cashier is a teenager and couldn't give less of a fuck. She rings me up, oblivious.
"That'll be eight-forty-two."
From a couple aisles over, a woman says, "I think I just saw Coach Brooks in the frozen aisle. Did you hear about him and the young girl?"
I can't not hear. "Disgusting," another voice says.
I don't turn, just hand over a ten to the cashier.
"She's barely older than the girls he coaches."
"What's a man his age doing with a girl that young?"
"Well, I heard they were inappropriate at the elementary school. Can you imagine? Where the children are!?"
"Poor girl must not know better. He's taking advantage, mark my words."
"Someone should call the police. Or at least the school board. He shouldn't be around children--"
I turn around to pin her with a glare so scathing, the woman buying groceries blanches. Her cashier turns, and her face goes flaming red. They look caught, guilty.
Self-righteous.
I open my mouth--to say what? Defend myself? Yell?
I know with one look that they'll never believe me. Everyone's watching.
So I close my mouth. Take my change. Turn on my heel and walk out. Behind me, whispers explode.
My hands are shaking by the time I get in my truck. This week has been such hell.
But I have her.
I'd do it all again, every confrontation, every humiliation, as long as I get to keep her. She's worth it all.
She's worth everything.
Within a few minutes, I'm turning onto her street. Her house is warm and welcoming, lights on, and I park my truck in the driveway like it belongs here.
For just a second, I let the tension drain from my muscles, shake out my shoulders, roll my neck. Breathe.Leave all the bullshit in the truck. Don't bring it in to her.
Frozen garlic knots in hand, I get out, climb the porch steps. The door's unlocked, and I make a note to remind her to lock up later. The scent of garlic and tomatoes and basil hits me. Music is playing softly, and Scout is winding around my legs.
Home.
I scratch the cat's head, walk toward the kitchen, my heart banging in anticipation of seeing her.
I stop dead in the casing.
She's at the stove, stirring pasta, barefoot and dancing a little, wearing my jersey, my last name in big letters across her back.
Those cutoff sweatpants peek out from the hem. Her neck is exposed, hair in that little bundle on top of her head, little curls at her nape. She hasn't heard me yet. And I stand there, staring, unable to breathe or think.
Everything else falls away. The shitty week, the gossip and accusations, the anger--none of it matters. Only this.
Only her.
She turns, sees me. Beams. "You're here! I was just--"
