I watch the stranger pass him a twenty-dollar bill before closing my eyes.
A hand rests on my arm. “Don’t be embarrassed. I’m all about passing it on. I’ve had people do some really amazing things for me in life, so I like paying it forward.”
I open my eyes and swallow, having to force a wobbly smile. “Thank you. I…” I don’t know what to say. “You didn’t have to do that. I appreciate it.”
She takes the change from the teenager who seems glad to be done with me. “No problem. Seriously.”
After my bags are loaded in the cart, and I thank the stranger for the umpteenth time while avoiding eye contact with the rest of the line, I make my way out to my 2004 Subaru Outback with way too many miles on it. It takes everything in me not to soak in my wounded pride as it simmers in my chest. I suppose things could have been worse. At least I didn’t have a card rejected like I did at the dollar store once. The woman who’d been standing behind me that day snickered as I walked out with nothing I’d come there for. All because I’d forgotten to cancel my free trial to an audiobook app. I’ve made it a point to mark on my calendar when to cancel things since.
I remind myself that payday is coming next week, so I’ll be fine until then. I have food for the week, gas in the car, and all my other bills are paid for the month.
“It could be worse,” I whisper to myself, cementing the sentiment in my head as I roll the cart into the corral.
I’m halfway back to my car when I hear a familiar voice call out, “Hey! Wait a second!”
Looking over my shoulder, I see the woman from the store jogging toward me with her own bag of groceries. I swallow down my embarrassment and try offering her the same smile she’s giving me. “Hi,” I say, rubbing my arm. “Thank you again for what you did in there. If you have Venmo, I can pay you back when I get paid on Friday. I’ll be good for the money.”
She rolls her pretty brown eyes, and it’s a playful gesture that seems light-hearted. “I meant what I said. I’ve been there, and I know how tough it is to accept help. It was only twenty dollars. You donotneed to pay me back.”
Shifting on my weight, I loosen a sigh. For some people, twenty dollars isn’t a big deal. I can’t wait until the day I can go grocery shopping and pick out whatever I want without having to look at the price tag or weekly paper for coupons.
“I’m usually better at calculating how much groceries will be, but they must have increased their prices again.” Despite what she says, I can’t help but add, “Are you sure I can’t pay you back somehow?”
She goes to answer, probably to tell me no again, then stops herself. I’m not sure what she’s thinking, or why there’s a small smile slowly curling her lips as she stares at me. “Actually,” she tells me, making me nervous, “I have an idea. We should go get coffee. It can be quick, so you can get your food home and put away.”
I treat myself to coffee twice a month, and I splurged twice already. Granted, one of those times left me wearing half of the drink, but still. I refuse to be ashamed about my budgeting tactics because it’s how I survive, but I don’t want anybody—even a stranger—to think it’s weird.
So, I fake it ’til I make it. “Sure.” It’s the least I can do if this is all she wants.
She points toward the café across the street. “Want to walk there so we can keep our cars parked here? I’d love to chat.”
I’m not used to a stranger being so personable. I give her the briefest once-over to figure out why she looks familiar, but it isn’t coming to me. She’s beautiful—her porcelain skin is flawless, and her round, dark brown eyes match her nearly black, shoulder-length hair. She’s shorter than me by a couple of inches, which makes me feel tall for a change at five feet three. I’m average compared to her. Average height. Average appearance. My blond hair is thinner but longer. My green eyes are brighter, but narrower. And I lack the same curves she has—mostly because food is expensive and I’ve got student loans that chew up most of my paycheck every month, because the scholarships I got only covered a minimal fraction of my tuition.
Still, I have no idea where I know her from.
And she must notice that curiosity. Because she sighs and says, “I get it now. You’re pretty. And you have a kind soul. I can tell.”
My brows pinch at the comment.
Before I can ask what she’s talking about, she winds the arm not weighed down with a grocery bag around mine and starts guiding us to the coffee shop. “My husband always had a good eye,” she says as we approach the glass doors with coffee beans painted on them with their hours in white lettering.
I frown. “Your husband?”
Her smile grows as she opens the door and looks at me. “Thomas Moskins.”
My heart drops as I freeze in the middle of the doorway.
That’swhy she looks familiar.
Emaly Moskins-Yokav is Thomas Moskins’s wife. I saw a few photos of them together while I was going through his file. Most of the images are old social media posts that are filtered with sappy posts attached to them.
And she knows me. What could she possibly know about me though? Unless she thinks…
“Oh my God. I-I—” I sputter my words, forcing myself to shake my head. “He and I aren’t like that. We’re not—”
“Sleeping together?” she guesses, bemusement dancing in her eyes. “I know. Come on, I need a caffeine kick. I’ve been exhausted adjusting to Eastern time again.”
She tugs me in when my feet refuse to move, and I have no choice but to follow her. We wind up in line, and tension builds in my shoulders as I wait for whatever this is to unfold.
