Asher follows my gaze and stiffens when he sees what I’m staring at. “No,” he says.
“You need it.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Asher. Your armpits are going to be destroyed if you crutch around this entire store.”
“I’ll sit in the car.”
“And what? I shop for you? No thanks. Come on. Nobody cares.”
He stares at the scooter as if it insulted his mother. Then, with a sigh that sounds like his soul is leaving his body, he crutches over to it and lowers himself onto the seat. I try so hard not to laugh. I really do.
But he looks absolutely ridiculous—this big, bearded man hunched over a little red scooter, his booted foot sticking out at an awkward angle.
“Don’t,” he warns.
“Don’t what?” I pretend to cough so I can hide a smile.
“Don’t laugh.”
“I’m not,” I lie as I bite the inside of my cheek. I grab a basket and walk alongside him. “Come on, Speed Racer. Let’s get you some dino nuggets.”
He motors after me, the scooter beeping softly. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
We start in produce, and I grab basics for myself: apples, bananas, salad stuff. Asher motors past it all, heading straight for the frozen food section. I follow him and watch as he loads his basket with frozen pizzas, bags of tater tots, and—yes—dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets.
“My sister thinks these are gross,” I say, holding up a bag.
“They taste better in dinosaur shape. There have been studies.”
“There have not.”
“Have you read all the studies?”
I’m grinning now, unable to help it. “You’re so weird.”
“Says the girl buying seventeen types of fancy cheese.”
I look down at my basket. “It’s only three types.” The cheese all says it’s from Udderly Creamy, which has so far been a delicious source of dairy and outstanding pun work. I start to imagine all the hashtags I could create for them if I were managing their social media. I bet those Climax hipsters would come in droves for #UdderlyRipe goat cheese spread.
We continue through the store like this—him piling boxes of frozen crap into the cart, me pondering a “whip it good” campaign for cream.
“Mac and cheese?” I hold up a box.
“The good kind or the healthy kind?”
“Is there a healthy kind?”
He waves a hand. “My sister buys some kind made with chickpea noodles. She can’t do gluten.”
“We’ll leave the garbanzo pasta for her then.” I toss three standard blue boxes into my basket and three into his. Despite everything—the broken ankle, the weird circumstances, the fact that we barely know each other—shopping with Asher is fun. I can’t remember the last time grocery shopping felt like anything other than a chore.
We’re in the chip aisle—salt and vinegar for both of us—when a woman’s voice calls out. “Asher Thorne? I wondered who had the scooter!”
We both turn to see the woman I met early this morning: Ginny Quick, with her curly blonde hair and pink manicure. She grins at Asher like she just spotted a celebrity.
