I followed with the cart because apparently that was my job now and I was weirdly happy about it.
She moved through the store like a general.
Butter. Heavy cream. Potatoes. Green beans. Cranberry sauce. Rolls. Stuffing mix, because, as she informed me, “I’m not making homemade stuffing this late in the day like someone’s pioneer wife.” Brown sugar. Sweet potatoes. Marshmallows. Pie. Whipped cream. More butter.
I tried to put protein bars in the cart.
She removed them without breaking stride.
“Those are not Thanksgiving.”
“They’re food.”
“They are gym sadness.”
“They’re efficient.”
“You are not bringing efficiency into my holiday meal.”
“My holiday meal?”
“Our holiday meal,” she corrected automatically.
Then froze.
So did I.
For half a second, the fluorescent grocery store lights hummed around us. Our cart sat between the green beans and canned gravy. Her hand rested on a bag of potatoes. Mine gripped the cart handle.
Ours.
She cleared her throat. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were about to.”
“I was enjoying it quietly.”
“That’s worse.”
I smiled.
She turned away, but not before I saw her cheeks go pink.
I bought the whole cart.
Everything.
Even the ridiculous jar of gravy she insisted was a backup plan and the tiny cinnamon broom she said would make the house smell less like emotional repression.
When we got back, the house was mostly empty.
Richard and the brothers were still at the club or wherever rich people went to pretend holidays weren’t just group projects in inherited dysfunction. Staff had cleared the kitchen from whatever catered nonsense had been prepped earlier. The counters gleamed. The expensive appliances looked untouched.
Isa stood in the middle of it with two Publix bags in each hand and looked around.
“Okay,” she said. “Where are your pans?”
