My stomach gives a small, strange dip.
I’ve seen him before.
At the bakery.
In the corner booth by the window. The one who didn’t order anything. The one who kept looking at the rain.
He isn’t looking at me now.
He’s studying a shelf. Or pretending to.
I tell myself it’s a coincidence. Seattle isn’t that big. People go places.
I grab a jar I don’t need and move on.
Two aisles later, I spot him again. Near the endcap of chips. Same hat. Same jacket.
Still not looking directly at me.
Okay. That’s… weird.
I head toward produce.
He’s there too.
Not close. Not far. Just… present.
A few steps behind. Or ahead. Or somehow always on the same path.
My pulse picks up.
“Get a grip,” I mutter under my breath. “You’re not the main character in a thriller.”
I make a sharp turn into the baking aisle.
Almost collide with another shopper.
“Sorry!” I say quickly.
The guy mumbles something and keeps going.
When I turn back— he’s gone… Thank God.
Shrugging it off, I head to self-checkout and start scanning. By the time I get to the bottle of rosé, I'm yawning behind my hand. A nice young man—oh God, I said young man like I’m ninety—comes running over to check my ID.
Name tag:Chad. He flashes a grin, swipes his card, and overrides the ID check.
"Wait." I blink at him in expectation. "Don’t you need my ID?"
Chad licks his lips awkwardly. "I mean...youcanshow me if you want."
Excuse me?
I stare him down like I’m about to ruin his entire existence.
"No, no," he backpedals fast, waving his hands. "I just meant — you clearly look over twenty-one."
Clearly.
