Down and Out

My forearms lean on the bar of the shopping cart as we stop in the middle of the bread aisle. “What’s next?”
Savannah frowns, gnawing on the end of her pen as she goes over her list. She’s still wearing her “Whitmore & Son Gymnasium” t-shirt. Her hair’s pulled over her shoulder in a low, loose ponytail, the long tendrils curling into waves. It’s the only way I’ve seen her wear her hair, but hey, no need to fix what ain’t broken. It makes her look soft and . . . pretty.
Jesus, look at me waxing poetic about this girl’s flippin’ hair.
I clear my throat and try to think of something else, looking instead at the people around us. Savannah’s either really good at ignoring them, or she honestly doesn’t care to be seen with me, because she hasn’t bat an eye at all the stares we’re getting in this fancy-schmancy grocery store.
I’m used to shopping at the Stop ’N Shop by the gym, not places that have sushi trays in their deli sections. But my weird, caveman-like instinct to feed her took over, and in my mind, expensive = better. So, here we are, shopping at a place where soccer moms drive luxury SUVs instead of minivans.
“Do you like fettuccine alfredo?” she asks.
“Yeah, that’s fine.”
“Okay, then we need heavy whipping cream, parmesan cheese, some nutmeg . . .” She counts the items off on her fingers, looking up toward the sky as she recalls things off an invisible list.
“For the sauce?” I ask. “You know they have that stuff pre-made, right?”
She blanches and looks at like me like I’ve just grown a second head. “No. No, no, no. Stuff made from scratch is always better.”
“Okay. . .” I try not to roll my eyes as I follow her down the aisle. She’s in charge of the cooking, so if she says she wants to make it from scratch instead of heating up the contents of a single jar, who am I to argue?
We round a corner, and suddenly we’re in Little Italy. I have to admit, it’s kinda cool the way they deck out each section of the store with true-to-the-food décor, complete with fake little buildings and everything. Chinatown’s up ahead, and they have a bayou-themed section for Cajun food off to the side.
I watch her peruse the rows of Italian food, and ask her, “So what’s your story?”
Normally people’s eyes get wide when they hear my father’s an alcoholic, or they show some other kind of shocked emotion, but Savannah had remained neutral. Just a simple, “Oh,” like I’d told her my favorite color was blue. It makes me wonder how deep her f*cked-up-ness goes, since she didn’t even bat an eye at mine.
She frowns as she pulls a big container of parmesan cheese off the shelf. “My story?”
“Yeah. What happened in your life that led you . . . here?” I’m careful not to use the word “homeless.” One, I don’t think she’d appreciate it, and two, we are in public, after all. Asking someone how they came to live in their car isn’t exactly a conversation you want to broadcast, but we’re alone enough, otherwise I wouldn’t have asked.
She shoots me a glare and starts to walk away, which is about what I expected. The wheels on the cart squeak as I try to catch up with her.
“You can’t blame me for being curious,” I say, coming to a leisurely pace beside her. “It’s not really something that happens to a lot of people.”
Her shoulders lift in a shrug as we mosey through the store. “My story’s not that different from anyone else who winds up in that situation.” She gives me a wry look. “Things just didn’t go my way.”
My eyes narrow as I study her fa?ade. “You haven’t told anyone your story, have you?” It’s not hard to guess, not with the way she carries herself and the general ten-foot moat she’s built around herself to keep people away.
Her bravado flickers for a second, allowing me to see the vulnerable girl hiding inside. And with that brief glimpse, I make it my mission to somehow tear down those walls and free her.
Her eyes tear away from me as her whole demeanor shifts. The fa?ade is firmly back in place. She crosses her arms over her chest, like she has to physically support her wall to keep it from crumbling. A tiny thing like that won’t be able to hold its massive weight forever.
“Nobody’s ever cared enough to ask, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t people who know my story.”
“Oh?”
She nods. “Oh, yeah, there are lots of people who know my story within CPS.”
“CPS?” What the hell is CPS?
“Child Protective Services,” she says, keeping her eyes ahead and her hands in her pockets. “See, I was bounced around from foster home to foster home after my meth-head of a mother OD’d when I was four. Then, when I was eighteen, I aged out of the system and my foster parents kicked me out. I was just a paycheck to them, and once that money stopped coming in. . .”
She shrugs, very matter-of-factly, and I listen, horrified and slack-jawed, as she continues.
“The rest of it’s pretty self-explanatory. I had to drop out my senior year of high school because in order to afford things like rent and food, I had to have a job, and in order to have a job, I couldn’t really go to school thirty-five hours a week, and guess what? Nobody wants to hire a high school dropout, so the only jobs I was able to get were demeaning and didn’t pay shit.” She stops and faces me. “That pretty much brings us to three days ago, when I came into your office and asked you for a job. I was desperate for something that didn’t require me to take off my clothes.”
My hands scrub my face as I reel in stunned silence. Savannah crosses her arms, suddenly looking uncomfortable and slightly embarrassed that she’s unloaded her horror story on me without mercy.
Blinking, I look away. I can still feel the weight of her words ruminating in my mind. They tear at me, breaking something inside me that I didn’t know could be broken.
“Jesus f*cking Christ.” The words are harsher than I meant, but I’m not mad at her, I’m just . . . mad. The whole thing’s seriously messed up and wrong. “You gotta stop doing that.”
“Doing what?” she asks, still locked in her defensive stance.
“Beating me over the head with the truth. My delicate sensibilities can’t handle it.”
I expect a laugh, or at the very least a smile, but I get nothing. She just says, “You asked.”
“I know, but geez. . . Next time give me a little warning before you bend me over and have your way with me.”
She scoffs, but doesn’t say anything, and she still won’t look at me. She’ll look at either my shirt or the floor. It’s driving me crazy. I want to see those eyes that are more expressive than she probably realizes. I want to know what’s going on inside that pretty head of hers, because right now, I just can’t tell.
Weird things happen inside my chest. My heart flutters, while at the same time it feels too tight. I frown at the odd feeling as she looks past me and says, “There’s no sugar-coating my life, Declan. It’s f*cked up and ugly.”
And here I thought my old man was bad. He’s a drunken stumble in the park compared to what she’s been through. “Would you be upset if I asked you for a hug?”
Her eyes dart to mine, and I almost flinch at the hate and disgust shining in the steel gray irises staring back at me. “Yes.”
I must be looking at her that way she hates. You know, sympathetically. Like the way a normal person would be after hearing something like that. “What if I said it’s for me, not you?”
Her brows lift in a “you gotta be shitting me” kind of way, and I can’t help but smile. “It’s true. After a horror story like that, I need to be comforted. I need you to hold me, Kitten.”
She rolls her eyes, but I see the smile tugging on her lips. “You don’t really strike me as the cuddly type.”
I point to the full sleeve of shapes, words, and colors inked onto my left arm. “Don’t let the tats fool you. My mom was very affectionate, and she taught me well. You won’t find a better hugger than me, I guarantee it.” As she laughs, I smile, thinking I really like the sound. “Just don’t tell anyone, okay? I’ve got a reputation to protect.”
She bites her lip and grins, and part of me just f*cking dies at the sight. She’s so damn pretty. “Your secret’s safe with me,” she says.
Gripping the bar of the shopping cart once again, I nod to the forgotten list sticking out of her pocket. “All right, what’s next?”
She pulls it out, scans the items, and turns to browse the shelf behind her. “Why is everything so expensive here?” she grumbles, gesturing to the rows of obscenely priced pasta. “Don’t you know there’s a Stop ’N Shop, like, a block from your place?”

It’s dark by the time we step out into the grocery store’s parking lot. The September air is still warm and slightly humid, but that won’t last much longer. Soon winter will roll in and I can kiss Savannah’s short-shorts goodbye. The thought has me feeling petulant, but I instantly perk up at the notion of us trying to find ways to stay warm in the harsh winter.
For the first time ever, I’m actually looking forward to winter in Boston.
Our cart is filled to the brim with white plastic sacks as I maneuver it through the parking lot. I stop at the back of my car and fish out my keys from my pocket. Savannah trails her fingers along the glossy black metal, over the gentle curves arcing up the side near the backseat window.
“What kind of car is this?” she asks. “It’s beautiful.”
I love a woman who can appreciate a beautiful car. “Sixty-seven Chevy Impala,” I say as I unlock the trunk and lift the lid. “Fixed it up with my pops before he passed.”
“Really?” Her brows lift as she studies the car and I start to load groceries into the trunk. “You guys did a great job.”
“Thanks. We went to a lot of junk yards trying to find authentic pieces to fix her up with. It was not easy.” I set the last bag in and Savannah puts the cart away while I shut the trunk and unlock our doors.
She climbs in as I start the car. Instinctively I turn on the radio, forgetting that I was listening to a CD the last time it was on. Loud guitars and heavy drums blast through the speakers. “Sorry,” I say, turning it down to a non-earsplitting level.
Her brows furrow as she buckles her seatbelt. “Who is this?”
“Atreyu.” I reach across me to grab my own seatbelt.
“I like it.”
My hand pauses as I glance at her. I wouldn’t have pegged her as the type of girl who’d like metal. “This is one of their tamest songs. Everything else has a lot more screaming.”
I cock my head to the side, watching her as she listens to the heavy guitar riffs. It’s a beautiful sight. Most girls can’t stand the heavy stuff, but Savannah doesn’t flinch or make faces at the occasional scream and pounding drums coming through the sound system. No, Savannah slowly smiles as the song progresses. I stare at her mouth, mesmerized, as the overwhelming urge to kiss her damn near overtakes me.
This girl’s an enigma, I swear. She never reacts how I expect her to, and for every puzzle piece I solve, I discover ten more that have taken its place. At this rate I’m never going to figure her out and I think I’m okay with that. In fact, I kinda like it that way.