Page 37 of Everything But Mine

I shrug. “Actually, I do. But I haven’t had them in forever. We don’t have to get them.” I move away and grab the blue box of a much healthier cereal that I eat regularly. By the time I turn to throw that in the cart, Eric has dropped the bear cereal and a similarly boring brand of raisin bran into the cart as well. I fixate my gaze on the box of teddy grahams and then stare at him. “Are we going to buy three kinds of cereal every week?”

It’s his turn to shrug now. “We’re playing it by ear, remember?”

I nod and nudge the cart forward, but something clenches in my stomach. Not nausea—just… familiarity. A tightening that wakes something up deep within. Eric’s questions are real. They’re not just pantomime to make us look like something we’re not. If anything, he’s always nudging the door open to what we could have been.

I reach for a box of granola bars. The kind I’ve trained myself to grab—a knockoff of a big brand. Sensible. A little bland. Affordable.

As I toss them into the cart, my eyes flick to the yogurt-covered ones. The ones I actually like. They are two boxes for seven if I go with the store brand. Daray hated them.

A different store. A different cart. Daray was next to me, one hand on his phone, the other steering the cart like it was a punishment he was enduring.

“Let’s get these yogurt bars I like,” I said, holding up the box. “They’re off-brand, but I’ve been craving them lately. And they’re two for seven.”

He glanced up. “You don’t need that processed crap. We already have cereal at home.”

“Yeah, but it’s yours,” I said. We hadn’t been living together long. I wasn’t defensive yet—just stating a fact. “I don’t really like shredded wheat.”

“You already got those fancy yogurts. This is better for you,” he said, tone flat. Dismissive. Already back on his phone.

I stared at the box of granola bars for a second longer, then put it back.

Now, in front of me, Eric’s crouched in the snack aisle, studiously comparing. I pick up both boxes of granola bars—the fruit ones and the yogurt ones—and weigh them in my hands. I used to think I was just bad at decisions. Always overthinking. Always second-guessing. But maybe I just got used to wanting less. Eric joins me, holding up two different crackers in a silent question. I use one of the boxes I’m holding to point at the poppyseed ones. He nods, then gestures at the yogurt bars with the crackers I’d just passed over. A wordless vote. There’s a silent understanding of compromise between us. Effortless. No resistance. But my body’s buzzing, like I’ve been holding something in too long.

Eric maneuvers the cart around the store, aisle by aisle. Sometimes, he doesn’t ask for input. He just throws something in there. I am empowered to do the same. There are a couple of repeated unnecessary things: his chicory coffee, my hazelnut, his oat milk, my 2%, and sugar-free creamer. Playing it by ear.

We make it around the back of the store to the meat section. He slows near the chicken area. His gaze is examining the drumsticks, comparing the price per pound.

“Why don’t you pick a couple of trays of meat or fish? I’ll do the same.” His eyes are now going over the bone-in cuts. “If you want to get larger quantities to save a buck, we can always repack it at home and freeze some of it.”

His mom did that. I remember spending afternoons with them and helping them wrap huge trays of ground pork into two-person portions. To me, it was fun playing store clerk. To them, it was their reality of stretching each penny.

Daray had tossed a sixty dollar rib-eye into our cart like it was nothing.

Tucked in the bottom of the cart, hidden under “my cheap shit.” Four cuts of grass-fed ribeye. The price tag—bold and unapologetic—flashed up at me.

“Daray,” I said quietly, “That’s like, over fifty dollars. I thought⁠—”

“It’s for the weekend,” he said, not looking at me. “We’re having Keith and his fiancee over, remember?”

I nodded. Of course. People. Image. His brand of generosity—loud and performative when it counted, frugal and controlling when it didn’t.

“Yes,” I countered. “I remember, but⁠—”

He stopped abruptly, causing me to bump into him. “Just because we have to live on cheap shit doesn’t mean our friends need to know. Just get fewer fucking cookies or whatever.”

For “company.” For the right impression. Because fucking Keith comes from money. I remember the flare of heat in my chest. Not anger. Something worse. Shame.

“This okay?” Eric asks, holding up a huge package of boneless thighs and another one with ground pork. “It’s not exactly gourmet, but versatile.”

I nod and show him a tray with four sirloin steaks for fourteen dollars and a package of two pounds of frozen salmon. He nods, commenting that the steaks were a good find. It doesn’t sound like he’s being stingy. More like he’s mindful and aware of his means. Eric grabs everything to toss it in the cart. Something catches in my throat. I don’t want gourmet. I honestly just want this. To be allowed to want and compromise.

Eric zigzags on the way to checkout, grabbing a few things he missed as he explains how he’s read certain things to settle the stomach in the morning, or what’s good for one pregnancy. Including ginger ale. He asks which brand I like best. I point to a random one. My voice is shaky. “That’s perfect.”

Maybe co-parenting with Eric could be like grocery shopping. Supportive. Not like a constant battle of wills.

When we reach the cashier, I brace myself for the passive-aggressiveness of who will pay. I get flashbacks of Daray, on multiple trips, fumbling through the bags, his credit card still in his wallet. He didn’t even make a move to offer it. He never would.

Back then, I told myself I was just being sensitive. But now I know better. Eric takes no time to put things on the conveyor belt. I used to resent Daray for his scrolling instead of helping.