Page 23 of Really Truly Yours
Since when does ninety degrees constitute sweater weather? Serious question here.
Here Sydnee and I are, wrapping up the great AC caper, and my partner in crime is wearing a sweater.
Mentally, I scratch my head and move along. “You don’t have a car?” I hadn’t given her empty driveway any thought until now.
“I do. It’s in the shop. I got hit two weeks ago.”
“Were you hurt?”
“Do I look hurt?”
Okay then. “How did you get to Chandor on Monday?”
Her arms are plastered into an x, and her eyes are zoomed in on the painted highway stripe. I’m beginning to get a complex. Do I stink or something?
“I drove Donny’s car.”
Yikes. “That heap in his driveway actually runs?”
She shrugs. “When it wants to.”
Probably a good thing it’s uncooperative. That ball of metal and duct tape called a car cannot be safe.
I follow the directions Sydnee gives as I turn out of the Dairy Stable or Stall or whatever it’s called. The grocery store ends up being one redlight away. I park in the nearest available spot. She’s out and on the pavement in no seconds flat. I catch up as the glass doors separate.
Loose hairs wisping about her cheeks, she looks surprised to see me. “What are you doing?”
A cold blast smacks me in the face, literally and figuratively. “I was thinking. Does Donny need anything here?”
Her aqua eyes soften. “Definitely. His check won’t come for three more days.”
Government aid? Probably. “Tell me what, and I’ll go get it.”
“It’ll be easier if we do it together.”
She rattles off a list of things, including old-person nutritional drinks, and I give her the lead. Now and then, without comment, she adds items which she collects into one corner of the cart. It takes me a minute to realize the items are her personal list.
Finished with part one of our mission, she veers for the pharmacy. I roll along after her. Here and there I notice surreptitious glances from customers. I doubt anyone here knows my name. I often get second takes because of my height alone.
She stops behind an elderly woman with a cane, who I believe makes up the line for the pickup window.
“Grayson?”
A spit of pale freckles on Sydnee’s nose capture my attention. “Call me Gray.”
Shoot. Does she have to balk every time I ask her something?
Her fingers land on her collarbone peeking above her shirt and open sweater. “There is one more thing I thought of.”
I shoot my gaze up again. “What’s that?”
Sydnee gnaws her lower lip. It’s a surprisingly pretty lip, half of a surprisingly pretty mouth.
Surprising why, exactly? I guess because I was focused on finding Donny in Mineral Springs and not on—
“Never mind. We can skip it.”
I blink. “Skip what?”