“I wish I had, to be honest,” I said now. “It seems like a pretty cool thing to be able to claim.”
“It’s not too late, though.”
“You don’t think?”
He shook his head. “You just need a few good shared memories. That’s all it takes.”
A few minutes later, after passing a sign welcoming us to Bly Corners, we hit what appeared to be a business district area. There was a police station, a post office, and a few retail stores. On the end sat a courthouse, a row of columns lining the front.
“Fun fact: That’s where your grandfather, the Judge, presided,” Ben told me as I studied it. “Thirty years on the bench.”
“You sound like a tour guide.”
“Is it impressing you?” He glanced over. “If so, I can also go into local history and government. Had to take a class the year I was in school here.”
I smiled. “Not necessary. I’m fully impressed as far as that category is concerned. No room for more.”
“But you’ll tell me if that changes?”
“Promise.”
He smiled, then slid his hands over the wheel. “Now, if you direct your attention ahead, you’ll see Bly Supply approaching. Perhaps you are acquainted with their famous sympathy grapes?”
“I am,” I said. “It’s actually one of my best shared memories, now that you mention it.”
“See?” He leaned over, bumping his shirted shoulder against my bare one. I felt a little zip, like a charge. “It’s already happening.”
Well, something was. I could tell by the mix of anxiety-slash-thrill I felt, instantly recognizable. It had been a while. But it’s a feeling you don’t forget.
We parked in the Bly Supply lot next to a seriously dented blue van sporting multipleSTUDENT DRIVER: PLEASE BE PATIENTstickers. Behind the wheel was a baby-faced girl with a bunch of braids pulled up into a topknot. She was so engrossed in her phone, she didn’t even register us when we walked right past her to the entrance. Some stories tell themselves.
The doors opened with a wheeze and we went in. Inside, it was basically a warehouse, lined with rows of shelves. Glass coolers and produce were against one wall.
“Okay,” Ben said, grabbing an oversized grocery cart—I don’t know why I’d expected anything else—and pushing it toward a sign that saidDAIRY.“First up is eggs.”
They came in flats of two dozen. He loaded up a stack before moving on to bread (several multipacks) and adding a few gallons of milk. As we passed the fruit section, he examined some big plastic bins of strawberries before throwing four of those in as well.
“It’s like shopping for a giant,” I observed when he added an oversized flour sack that puffed a white cloud as it hit the cart. “You guys do this every day? I can’t believe you go through that much.”
“In restaurants backups are crucial,” he explained. “The worst is running out of something.”
After a stop for enough napkins to wipe clean a small country, we finally turned onto the personal care aisle. The toothpaste was on the far wall, and there were, indeed, both plain paste and gel options. In eight packs only. We stood, surveying them together.
“You know, I’m suddenly feeling really hopeful,” I observed.
“I told you!” he snorted. “Okay. Decision time. Mint or Cherry Sparkle Fun Gel?”
“Whatever you want,” I said.
“Really?” He turned to look at me square on. “I was sure you’d have firm opinions. Thought I might even get strong-armed.”
“Byme?” He nodded. “Why?”
“Well, the other night you were pretty pissed off about your boyfriend.”
“That might have been the beers,” I said.
“You threw your phone in the lake,” he pointed out.
