Page 28 of Rootbound
“Plus, there’s never a shortage of labor that needs to get done. Fences need mending, fire lines need maintaining. The family tries to keep staff small so I usually do a lot of that. Well, Grady, Caleb, James and I do. Here, let me help you out.” I laugh and take the basket from her arm and go retrieve a cart.
I’m not sure why it feels pervy to touch her jacket and neatly put in the top basket, but it does.Probably because youhave pervy thoughts about her, and touching her clothes reminds you of those thoughts, you pervy fucking pervert.
“Thank you,” she says when I return with it. She doesn’t go to take it from me, though, so I don’t feel like she’s anxious for me to leave.
We walk around companionably as she continues to add a menagerie of things. I can’t see a connection in much of them, but she seems to know what she wants. I can’t help but snort as she appears to have an internal debate over green enchilada sauce versus red—given that I don’t see a single other ingredient for enchiladas.
“What? I can feel you judging me,” she says, eyes still on the sauces.
“Nothing, nothing. I just was thinking that your grocery shopping reminds me a little of your playlist organization.”
She tosses her head back and belts out a laugh, and, just like every other time before it, I can’t help but get drawn in. She laughs with her entire face. Her nose scrunches up and her eyes close, like laughing is the best feeling she’s had every time she does it. She backhands my shoulder when it dies down.
“I am not saying that your assessment of my playlist making skills is atallaccurate, but Iama terrible grocery shopper if I don’t have a list, or specific things in mind. I will be surprised by half of this when I get home,” she admits.
“I still take umbrage with the fact that you can transition from Cardi B to Tom Petty back to back,” I press on.
“You‘take umbrage’? Who are you? Who says that?” She laughs again. “You’d probably takeumbragewith the fact that I eat breakfast for dinner more than not, too, huh?”
“Not at all. That’s completely different,” I say. “Music islike a filter over an atmosphere. Now, if you were listening to Slayer while eating a crepe,thatI would take umbrage with.”
“Well, I guess dinner’s off the table for us then.” She shrugs.
“Not to be rude, but I’m not sure I’m interested in the menu at your place.” I laugh as I gesture to the cart contents.
She laughs back, but it morphs into a sigh as she looks over the items. “I’ll probably come up with something brilliant, and realize thirty minutes in that I forgot the main ingredient. I rarely cook full meals since I got divorced. Iusedto enjoy it, actually.”
“I know what you mean. Cooking for one isn’t a huge thrill for me either.” Her gaze flies to mine.
“Did you used to cook for… more than one, then?” she asks, and I hear the real question. My knee-jerk reaction is to change the subject, but before I do, I recall her sweaty, trembling hand as we pulled up to the house that first day, and her monologue on dating later that night, so I compromise…
“I have. I did. For a little while.” But I can’t bring myself to elaborate further. She saves me after a brief pause.
“People always think that when you get skinny after heartbreak, it’s from depression. I think a lot of times it’s just a matter of convenience,” she says with a small snort. I level her with a look and a nod in agreement.
“At least, it could be. Could also be that you’re just… already full. Of feelings, of questions.” And then she adds immediately, “Sorry. I’m not sure why I said that. Cole—my ex—he had an affair…” She swipes her hands through the air like she’s struggling for more clarification. “He leftme for her.”
I take a second to decide how to respond. The fury that rises in me at this admission isn’t exactly proportional to the amount of time that I’ve known her, I realize, but it stirs something in me that I usually take care to avoid.
“When someone betrays you, you don’t have a chance to lose feelings. You’re left with all that leftover love, plus anger right alongside it, with nowhere for it to go and no one to give it to. It’s like a phantom limb or something, I guess,” I say, and stop the cart when she stops, regarding each other.
“Exactly,” she says in a quiet voice, her eyes darting between mine. “I imagine, that, in a way—and I hope this doesn’t sound super fucked up—but, I imagine in a way, it’s like a death. At least that’s how I chose to process it.”
She’s still looking at me with a mix of shock and admiration, and I feel my expression mirror hers as we just managed to put into words what I’ve felt for three years. It’s amazing how putting words to something, reducing a big, impossible thing to language, makes it understandable.
“I agree. You can look back and try to hold on to the good bits that way, without getting bogged down with the anger. It’s harder to be angry at someone who’s dead to you,” I reply, her expression tripping on a wince.
She turns and keeps walking. Without looking back over to me, she says, “I hate that I still can’t honestly say that he’s dead to me. Just the relationship, the shared life is. Even though I know that I’m over him, even though in hindsight I can appreciate that being with him led to good things in my life—in spite of the way it ended. I don’tthinkI’m bitter, but I don’t reallyknowif I have closure, you know? How do you know?”
I inhale deeply, carefully weighing my response,searching for an epiphany to share with her as I’m absorbing it for myself. “I guess if you’re holding back from anything because of them, you don’t have it. I think we learn from experience, so of course you’re going to make decisions differently based on your experiences with them. But I think if you are denying yourself anything, ornotdoing something because of them… I guess that means you don’t have it.” I shrug, because fuck if I actually know. I’m still floundering through it myself.
She peers at me sideways, and I’m snared again for a second. We look away and back at the same time and then suppress a laugh. We’re both a mess. The silence easily transitions back into companionable, but now coupled with another level of understanding each other. We both have shit, and neither of us is dying to dig into it too deep.
Eventually, we turn down the same aisle for a third time and she grabs a bag of shredded cheese. I can’t hold back another chuckle, and she lets one out, too, and gives me a little hip check. I’m enjoying this version of her that’s touching me, even if it’s only because I’m teasing her. Childish, or not, I find that I want to find something else to poke fun at.
“I’m going to need to find some takeout places around here, aren’t I?” she says.
“Just come by my place if you need anything, I’m sure I’ve got what you need. I can feed you.”