“How did you even get him to talk?” She moved closer, eyes wide, rapt. I began distributing our food onto the cheap-ass paper plates I kept buying so I wouldn’t have to do dishes. “He looked like he might call the cops if he ever saw us again.”
“Yeah, I got that vibe. But I got lucky and he was right there when I walked in.”
“Okay, but how did you get him to tell you anything? Was it the dress?”
“Uh. No.” I offered a plate to her and she took it, immediately shoveling some pad Thai in her mouth while maintaining eye contact. “I may have gone the dead dad route?”
She nodded thoughtfully. “Even assholes are moved by the dead dad bit.”
I put together my own plate and motioned for her to follow me into the living room. We sat side by side on the couch, plates balanced on our laps, and she kept her eyes on me, waiting for details. I expected her to be disappointed, but even an insufficient ending was an ending. She didn’t have to wonder anymore.
I resisted the urge to beg for validation. The light had returned to her eyes, so clearly I’d done something right. It wasn’t fair to ask for more.
Five
“I still can’t believe the dress didn’t work,” Arden said, weighing two identical peaches in her hands. I grabbed a random one and sniffed it—peachy—then added it to my own bag. “It would work on me if you looked at me right.”
“Well, you’re only human,” I replied. We moved away from the stone fruits, Arden pushing our cart while I punched numbers into my calculator app. “Benji Dexter is some sort of cyborg programmed to write yearning love letters and shoot lasers out of his eyes.”
“If anyone could kill with a look, it’s him. I can’t believe you went back.”
I groaned. “He’s probably filing a restraining order as we speak.”
“You can’t hold questionable actions against someone who’s grieving.” She pointed at me, her expression growing serious. “It’s basically a form of self-defense, but, like, against yourself.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I don’t know. I’m so hungry. I might be a little delirious. But I think my point stands.”
“It does not.”
She moved to the leafy greens. I chewed my lip, gazing at the fresh spinach, heads of lettuce, collards, broccoli. My dad sparked our shared hobby when he accidentally signed up for a couples cooking class and invited me to tag along—we had a blast and made a point to get together at least once a month to try out a new recipe. Now, it had been months since I’d cooked anything other than instant ramen or microwave meals. I hadn’t felt the urge to scour the internet for new recipes in a hot minute, but with a fourteen-year-old to feed and sole responsibility for bills, I couldn’t afford much of anything except frozen meals and cheap takeout anyway. The ache in my chest reminded me of how much I missed it.
I had twenty-six dollars left. Frozen broccoli would be cheaper.
“Is Phoebe bummed?” Arden asked, loading the cart with all sorts of green goodies. “About him not sending the letter?”
“Not really? I think she’s happy to know.”
“Shitty end to the story, though.”
“That’s what I told him.”
She snorted. “Lucky he didn’t zap you out of existence with his laser eyes.”
We moved out of the produce section into the natural foods. I didn’t bother looking at the shelves, knowing it was out of my price range.
I missed having my shit together. Every time I went grocery shopping with Arden, I couldn’t help the surge of bitterness as I watched her shop around not just for necessities, but little luxuries like a new pan or candle. I’d shove the thoughts down deep before I had the chance to decipher if I was jealous of her disposable income or lack of responsibility.
I wanted to give Phoebe a good life. Instead, I was scrapingby with teaching and an upcoming bartending gig at Noah’s friend’s restaurant for the summer. Possibly a future in selling feet pics on the internet, if there was still a market for that kind of thing.
(Arden assured me there was always a market for that kind of thing.)
“You would tell me if Noah was proposing, right?” she asked, snapping me into grocery store reality. Inspecting the back of a box of Annie’s mac and cheese, she didn’t bother meeting my eyes. Of course she knew. She was the smartest person in the entire world.
“No,” I said. “Why?”
Now she did look at me. “I hate surprises.”
