"Darla."
"You cannot say my name like that in public. It feels like you're grounding me."
Candace's expression stays hard, but her attention flicks briefly to Darla's stomach. Back. That subtle pause. With quiet calculation.
"What is going on with you?" Lower this time.
Darla's laugh is too quick. "Nothing."
I watch Candace's grip tighten on the cart. She's not stupid. Not blind. She's letting Darla choose when the truth becomes public.
Darla slides the pickle jar in when Candace reaches for tomatoes. Quick. Sneaky. Her glance darts to me, brows raised, begging me not to rat. I give her the smallest nod. Her smile is instant, bright, and she drops a box of cookies in too, testing her luck.
Candace wheels around. Stares. Darla freezes. "Did you just put a gallon of pickles in my cart?"
Darla's voice comes out airy. "It's for the clubhouse."
"And the cookies?"
Too-fast nod. "Yes."
Candace glances at me. I shrug one shoulder. Not my battle. Candace exhales through her nose and shoves the cart forward. "Get what you need. But if you throw up in my car, I'm making East detail it."
Darla laughs, and it sounds relieved.
At the bakery, Darla presses her face to the glass display. "Tell me we can get the chocolate croissants."
"We're feeding thirty bikers. Not bribing children."
"Same thing." Solemn. "Can we also get the one with the almond filling?"
Candace narrows her eyes. "How many pastries does one woman need?"
Darla's cheeks color. "It's not for me." Beat. "It's for Frankie."
"Frankie would rather drink black coffee and insult everyone."
Darla lowers her voice. "Okay. It's for me. Please. I will do anything."
Candace waves a surrendering hand. "Fine."
Darla practically glows, pointing at pastries as though she's designing a banquet. She angles toward me, expression softening, quiet, secretive, almost shy.
I don't make a scene. I just meet her gaze and let my expression say it. I know. I'm with you. You're safe.
Outside, the sun feels warmer after the fluorescent chill. Candace loads everything while Darla fusses with the pastry bag, and I stand by the car a moment too long, scanning the lot without meaning to.
"Second stop," Candace says, signaling out. "Wine shop."
Darla perks up on reflex, catches herself so fast her whole face does a guilty reset. "Yes. Because we need a red for dinner. Something good."
Candace's mouth twitches. "Since when do you care about reds? You drink rosé like it's water."
Darla waves a hand. "I'm evolving."
Candace hums, filing it away.
The wine shop is dim and cool, air smelling of oak barrels and cork dust. Candace moves toward the reds with purpose. Darla lingers near the entrance, arms crossed, nose wrinkling at the air as though the whole shop personally offended her.
