He held his hands in the air. “Four neurologists confirmed it.”
“You mean you’ve been handed a hall pass to avoid eating vegetables?”
His smile widened, familiar. Dangerous. Sparking tingles in all the places where warning signs about the temptation of Brennan should be branded.
For a brief second, we just stood there staring at one another—blocking the on sale canned tomatoes and jarred sauce. I didn’t feel like we were two people forcing a conversation because we needed to play nice. No, this was different.
It was about camaraderie, bantering about everyday topics. It also let me see the Brennan I fell for all those years ago wasn’t a lapse in judgement.
After chatting for a while, Brennan reluctantly glanced down at his cart. “Well, I guess I better check out before my chicken decides to take its revenge.”
“Salmonella Strikes Back, the Irish edition?”
“Something like that.” He eyeballed my cart one last time. “I don’t think you’ll have that problem.”
“Why do you think I always consume so much pasta? I knew it wouldn’t poison me,” I joked.
We both laughed, and the sound surprised me most of all—how easy it was, how it didn’t bring up memories the way I expected it to. I didn’t have flashbacks to angry Brennan who didn’t believe me. I didn’t turn into bitter Amy who can’t let go.
We just laughed and it felt good.
When I shared that with my therapist later that week, she reminded me that beautiful things can emerge from the ashes of destruction.
Maybe that’s what this is. If so, I suspect Cedar Grocery wouldn’t be the last place we were brought together.
The probabilities I estimated were correct. The next week, I ran into Brennan at the dry cleaner.
I was fishing my claim ticket out of my bag while waiting in line. The hum of the overhead lights were buzzing like a hive of bees when the bell over the door chimed behind me.
I didn’t look up. I was too busy mentally reciting the list of things I needed to do before Monday morning.
Then I heard his voice.
“Fancy running into you here.”
Giving myself a beat to prepare for the onslaught of emotions seeing him brings, I paused for half a second before turning around.
Brennan is waiting at the opposite register, jacket slung over his shoulder, hair still damp like he’d come straight from a run. He looked unfairly gorgeous in the effortless way men have that suggest they don’t even try to drive our hormones wild.
“Complete coincidence.”
He lifted a brow. “Twice?”
“Small towns are horrible for statistics. Especially when you keep running into the same person.”
He laughed, low and familiar. The corners of his eyes crinkled causing something in my chest to warm despite my best efforts to keep my heart shielded.
I step up to the counter, hand the clerk my ticket. While she’s in the back searching for my work clothes, a different clerk comes out with a lone sweater with an intricate pattern.
Irish wool. I immediately recognize it and turn my gaze up to Brennan. “Yours?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Why not just wash it?”
“My mother lectured me after mailing me my third clan pattern this year. I’m not allowed to wash it anymore.”
I chuckled. “Your mother scares you.”
