The fridge looks bare, so I grab my wallet and head to the grocery store. Under the bright lights, I fill my cart with the basics. Turkey dogs, pancake mix with the protein in it, beer.
Having been here for a few weeks, I barely notice that I’m surrounded by queer people, or that the food in the grocery store is different than all the stores back home. The busier streets are almost starting to feel familiar, too.
“Oh my god, Clay!”
I turn, and Nicholas is standing there with a full cart. He’s in jeans and a T-shirt, and he smiles at me broadly.
“Nicholas, hey.”
“I don’t know why it’s surprising to see you here,” he says with a chuckle. “But it is!”
“It’s the closest grocery. What am I supposed to do?”
He smiles as some people pass around us. “You’re supposed to shop here, just like I do.”
I glance in his cart. “Are you only buying produce?”
He glances in my basket. “Are you not buying any produce?”
“Bananas,” I object. “And there are vegetables in all the frozen shit.”
Nicholas chuckles. “I’ll resist the urge to put my carrots in your basket.”
I arch both eyebrows, and he blushes as he lets out a laugh.
“You know what I mean,” he says.
I can’t believe we’re flirting in the middle of the grocery store. And it feels normal.
My head is seriously fucked.
“I’m about to check out,” I tell him. “So at least we can skip the part where we awkwardly cross paths down every aisle while we shop.”
“I’m ready to check out, too,” he says brightly. “Come with me to the end lane. There’s no one at Greg’s register right now.”
I get swept along in his energy as we walk. He chats his way through the store, saying a friendly word to almost everyone. When it’s his turn at the register, he fills up so many of his cloth bags with groceries, I grab a few to carry, ignoring his protests.
“I can really get them myself,” he says as we step outside. “And you have your own bag to carry.”
“Nicholas, I’m not going to let you carry all of those bags by yourself. I can call you an Uber if you’d rather. But you’re just a few blocks away, so let me help, for fuck’s sake.”
He laughs. “Fine. Be a gentleman. I’m not going to argue.”
I huff to myself, more than a little satisfied.
Whatever.
We haul the groceries back, talking about our days along the way, the little details of our work that we’ve come to learn about each other. He’s trying to figure out how to secure his different client bases ahead of this new competition, and it’s amazing to me how many aspects of the business he seems to always be juggling, and how he always has some bright idea that actually works.
“I’m thinking we take our farmer’s market stand on the road,” he says, talking it out. “I’ve already invested a lot in the stand, so the infrastructure is there, and it’s always profitable. We’ll hit up all the local festivals and bring the flowers straight to the people who want them, where Flower Hub won’t be. I’ll make use of my best suppliers and invest in their bumper crops for the events, help strengthen those relationships, too.”
I nod. “Seems like there’s a festival every weekend in this town. It’s a pain in the ass when you’re trying to get somewhere.”
He laughs warmly. “We only have so much tolerable weather. We have to use every weekend.”
It’s only when he stops in front of a three-story brick building that I realize we’re there. I’m about to see his place.
“It’s a studio on the second floor,” he says, juggling a bag to get his keys. “Come on in.”
