“But in the long run, it’s more expensive,” he argues. “And less efficient.”
“True,” I admit. “But I won’t need a compass to find the paper towels.”
Penn heaves an exasperated sigh, then starts casually eating from a bag of grapes he just pulled from a bin.
“Those haven’t been washed.” I’m, frankly, aghast.
Penn pops another grape into his mouth. “Some of us overthink life. And some of us live it.”
“That’s illegal, you know.”
“Call the police,” he wails, mid-chew. “Grape thief in aisle three!”
I seize the bag, tossing it into the cart. “Grapes aren’t even on our list,” I hiss.
While I don’t plan to be in this game world for long, I need proper sustenance. Love them as I may, Dunkaroos simply don’t supply all the nutrients required to put up with Penn Hayes.
“What about these?” We turn a corner, and he pulls SpaghettiOs from the shelf. “Do they make the list?”
I let my silence do the talking.
I’ve been searching everywhere for rules, but maybe I should be seeking out a sinkhole instead. Something to swallow me whole and put me out of my misery.
“Don’t tell me you have a problem with SpaghettiOs,” Penn says, sliding a look at his phone. He’s ignored two calls in a matter of minutes. “They’re a pantry staple.”
“For second graders.”
“Oh, but Gushers are okay?”
“They’re delicious.”
“So are SpaghettiOs.”
I take the can, set it back on the shelf, and keep moving. “SpaghettiOs are a subpar substitute for an actual meal, packaged and purchased only for convenience.”
“God,” Penn says. “I love it when you talk dirty to me.”
He says it right as we pass an elderly woman. Worried she’s overheard us, I avert my eyes, pretending to be engrossed in the nutritional makeup of lima beans.
“Cindy!” Penn trills.
I do a double take.
The elderly woman is Mrs. Baker, our old neighbor. The grumpy one who, back in reality, has been letting Theo Ford live in her carriage house. The woman who, for years, spent several minutes a day shooing Penn off her lawn.
“What a nice surprise,” Penn adds, as if she’s just invited him in for tea. “How are those voice lessons treating you? Am I talking to the next Adele?”
“Oh, Penn.” She laughs lightly as he goes in for a hug. Ahug. “How’s your mother?”
“Très bien,” he says with a shockingly smooth French accent. Mrs. Baker loves it. I hate to admit it, but I do, too. He must’ve picked up a thing or two on his annual visits overseas.
Diane met a Parisian artist while we were in college, promptly retired from broadcast news, and now sightsees across Europe with her handsome boyfriend. Penn’s happy for his mom—just as he was happy with most of her other boyfriends. He likes to see Diane having fun, I think. And he’s gotten used to doing his own thing. Plus, Christmas in Paris sounds beautiful.
“By the way,” Penn adds, nudging Mrs. Baker. “Those caramel candies you like are back in stock. Two aisles over. By the licorice.”
I stare at him, momentarily stunned. A French accent is one thing, but now he’s also fluent in fellow shoppers’ pantry staples?What. Is. Happening.
After thanking Penn, Mrs. Baker winks and adds, “I’ll say hi to Melissa for you.”
