The next day, I need to get out of the house, so I volunteer to do the grocery store run for the week. Sure, driving with my clunky cast isn’t all that easy, but I manage to pull into a wide space near the back of the parking lot just fine. I’m exhausted from work and could use a nice relaxing evening at home, but my mom is a hoverer, especially now that she thinks I’m damaged goods. Compared to enduring her claustrophobic nurturing, strolling through the grocery store to the crackly tones of Billy Joel’s “Uptown Girl” will be like my own personal spa day.
It’s not long before I realize my mistake. Back in North Carolina, I could typically go out without fear of running into a single person I knew. Here, in Hamilton, it’s the exact opposite. I close my eyes and try to visualize how I must appear. I showered after work and pulled on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt. My hair is still damp and my face is makeup free. Not your best look there, Daze.
As if it’s orchestrated by some cruel god, I’m stopped by no less than five people on my walk toward the sliding glass doors. It’s mostly people welcoming me back or asking how my mom is doing, but I make a break for it when a neighbor asks me to look at a mole on her upper thigh.
Once inside I feel safer, but I snatch a People magazine from the rack for camouflage just in case. I’m multitasking, reading an interview about Ben Affleck while bagging zucchini when I see Lucas on the opposite side of the vegetable section. He’s changed since work too. He’s wearing workout clothes and a baseball hat. His glasses are gone and his t-shirt looks damp, as if he’s come straight from the gym.
He looks up, sees me staring, and I whip the magazine up to cover my face.
Go away. Go away. Go away.
I’m repeating the words under my breath, hoping he’ll disappear like a reverse Beetlejuice. Just in case my magic spell doesn’t work, I turn my back toward him and stuff zucchinis into my cart like CNN has just announced a worldwide shortage.
I can only imagine his snide remark: Big fan of zucchini?
I stand there, shaking, wondering how long it will take him to come over and pick a fight, but after another minute or two, I look over my shoulder and realize he’s gone. He didn’t come over.
Huh.
I straighten my shoulders and finish weaving through the produce section with a sense of dread. Suddenly, the tall aisles feel like the walls of a maze, with Minotaur Lucas lurking somewhere within. I decide to skip the middle of the store and head straight toward the back wall of meats and cheeses, hoping to spot him before he sees me.
Ugh. He’s two steps ahead, checking out the poultry. I know he sees me out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t turn. He gathers an armful of lean chicken breasts, which I’m sure his body will somehow transform into another row of abs. He continues on, always a few yards ahead of me. It’s torture. I can’t seem to care about spaghetti sauce when I know Lucas is on the opposite end of the aisle choosing between two brands of pasta.
Does he really not see me? What game is he playing?
I purposely linger a little too long in front of the chips—spoiler, Ben Affleck is probably going to get back together with Jennifer Garner. I’m hoping to lose Lucas for good, but it’s no use. We meet up again in the frozen food section, passing right by each other. I brace myself, awaiting the remark he’s taken all this time to craft, but nothing comes. He breezes right past me like we’re strangers. I stop and turn over my shoulder. He’s picking ice cream. Now I know he’s faking—he’s too in shape for desserts. In his workout clothes, I can see every inch of his broad chest and toned legs.
Before I know what I’m doing, I push my cart right up to his. With my cast on, though, I don’t have much control over the trajectory, so I end up ramming it into his like a bumper car. It isn’t an intentional use of force, but I sort of like the tone it sets.
“Hey there, Daisy,” Lucas says. He’s smirking, but his gaze stays pinned on the ice cream.
I bend forward, trying to meet his eyes. “Enough, Lucas. I know you’ve seen me shopping.”
He tilts his head at the ice cream display. “Rocky Road or mint chocolate chip?”
This must be a mind game, but as a self-titled authority on ice cream, I can’t not answer.
“Are you kidding? Rocky Road is gross. Who wants nuts in their ice cream?”
He reaches in and grabs the Rocky Road, plops it in his cart, and turns his back to me. He’s already halfway through the frozen pizzas by the time I realize he’s blown me off.
Out of spite, I reach in for the mint chocolate chip.
I catch up to him in front of the milk. He wants 2% and so do I. He reaches in for a gallon and holds it up for my inspection. I nod and he puts it in my cart.
“Thanks.”
His gaze falls over my cart as he heads toward the yogurt. “Did you leave any zucchini for anyone else?”
“Ha! I knew you would bring up the zucchini!”
I sound disproportionately pleased about this, like I’m an interrogating detective and my perp just confessed.
“I’m just curious about what you—or anyone—could possibly do with that much. It’s filling up a quarter of your cart.”
I hadn’t thought that far ahead.
“Bread,” I declare proudly, like a toddler that knows twelve words.
“Zucchini bread?”
He sounds like he doesn’t believe it’s a thing. By some miracle, it is.
“It’s delicious. Like banana bread, but better.”