Page 61 of Tasty Cherry

Except maybe a cure for rage.

Because Brooklyn’s hit the angry stage over Maverick. As we push our buggies up and down the rows, she continues a circular rant that began in the car on the way here.

“And what the hell was he trying to do, showing off his next lay? What did he expect me to do? Tear her off him and declare my undying love?”

“I don’t think Maverick’s looking for love.”

“So I got too clingy, and this is how he gets rid of me?” Brooklyn’s cart skids into a display of tortilla chips at the end of the row. I leap forward to straighten the stacked boxes before the whole pyramid tumbles.

“I wasn’t even clingy! I’m not a clinger! He came, he conquered, he went to his room!” She taps my shoulder so I’ll stop examining the chip display for structural integrity. “Is this a clingy face?”

I turn and she has this dreamy look, like maybe this moment is the best thing ever happened to her.

“Is that the look you gave him?”

“It’s my standard post-sex look to make sure they know I want them to come back!”

“Do you give it to everyone?” This whole concept is new to me.

“Heck, no. Only the ones I want to come back.”

“Do it again.”

She shifts from anger back to the content expression so quickly that I wonder if she missed her calling on the big screen. “It looks a little on the love-sick side.”

“What!” She shoves so hard on her cart that it rams the tortilla display again. Several loose chip bags tumble from the top, and I lunge to catch them.

When I have them back in place, I slide her cart away from the stacks. “I mean, maybe not?”

“No, no, no. Go with your first impression.” She pulls out her phone and switches to selfie mode. She makes the face. “Oh, God. I look like I’m in love with him. Do you think he thought I was in love with him?”

“Maybe?” Brooklyn is still new as a friend, so I’m not clear about the best way ahead, not like I would have been with Camille.

“Damn it!” She shoves hard on the cart, and that’s it. It rams the chip boxes, and the bottom row shifts, then the upper section tumbles.

Chip bags fall from the top, banging their way down like rocks careening off a cliff. Crunch, rattle, crash. Boxes and packages pile onto the floor.

A store employee heads our way.

“We gotta go!” I tell her.

She snaps out of it, and we race with our buggies up the aisle, speeding past mothers with toddlers in the seats, shoppers contemplating brands of peanut butter, and a stocker or two filling shelves.

When we’re at the other end of the store in produce, we hide behind the display of apples, which has a tall cardboard sign describing the different varieties.

Then we laugh. It starts as a giggle, but moves on to a full belly-quaking takeover. We sit on the floor between our carts, holding our stomachs, tears in our eyes.

“All this for a dumb boy,” Brooklyn says.

“Maverick is the poster child of dumb boy.”

She closes her eyes. “He sure is good in bed, though.”

This makes me think of Sebastian. I have nothing to compare him to, but does that matter if I love what he does?

Brooklyn smacks my leg. “You’re thinking about boning. Somebody good. Who was it?”

I stammer a moment, my brain not able to come up with any name but Sebastian. “Just a guy.”