“Our theme is Snow White and the Seven Hockey Players.”
I couldn’t even begin to think about how dumb that sounded. But then, a mattress race already sounded pretty stupid, on its own. “You’re kidding.”
“No.” He laughed. “But Snow White dropped out. She was dating Ian, but they broke up, so we’re, like…well, we’re sort of screwed. Please say yes.”
“Doesn’t some other girl at school want to do it?” I asked.
“Maybe. But who cares? I want you to do it,” he said. “And hey, if it sucks, we could just do this.” He kissed me, pulling me toward him. Then suddenly he was pushing my hair back behind my ear and saying, “Okay, got to go. Call me tomorrow—we’ll hang out.”
I was in kind of a daze as I watched him jog down the street toward his house.
As I walked into the house, I thought: I should have invited him to the cabin just then. I’d missed a totally perfect opportunity. What was my problem?
I was so happy that I didn’t even mind being sent to buy groceries by Gretchen as soon as I got home and told her everything was okay. She was smart enough not to say “I told you so,” which helped.
I didn’t see Conor when I walked into Zublansky’s, so I figured he wasn’t there. I grabbed a basket and walked around quickly to collect the stuff we needed for dinner. As I stepped up to Lane 8 to check out, suddenly Conor appeared.
“I’ve got it,” he volunteered, walking over to the line where I was standing. “Paper or plastic?” he asked me.
“Plastic,” I said.
“How’s it going?” He tried to sound casual, but his voice sounded a little forced to me. He could have avoided this—and me, I thought. Considering the way we’d left things earlier in the day, that’s what I would have done. So why was he jumping over to my line to help me?
I noticed he had a bruise near his eye, like Sean. “Ouch. Your face doesn’t look too good either,” I said.
“Excuse me?”
“No! I mean, your face is fine, your face is great. Just a little beat up.”
“It’s nothing. It doesn’t hurt. Superficial scrape is all. What’s for dinner tonight?” Conor asked as he started to pack the groceries.
“Chicken.”
“Yeah. I kind of figured.” He dropped the package of chicken into a plastic bag and it landed with a loud thump.
“Easy. Don’t break the chicken,” I said.
“I think it’s been broken already,” he said dryly. “So, just chicken. Baked? Fried?”
“Chicken with onions, mushrooms, peppers and tomatoes,” I said.
“No kidding,” he commented as he bagged each item in the same order I listed it. He stopped when he got to the tomatoes, and shook the plastic bag so that three of them rolled out. He started to juggle them, saying “I’m all about the tomatoes.”
The cashier and I looked at him, and then at each other, and exchanged irritated, he-is-so-annoying-and-we-have-no-patience-for-this glances.
When he dropped one tomato, he swore, then quickly let the other two fall right into a waiting plastic bag. “So, Italian night or what?” he asked.
“I don’t know what we’re having, actually. It’s Gretchen’s list, but I’m guessing it’s some kind of Italian dish. If you must know.”
“Oh, I had to know. I’m very nosy when it comes to my customers’ meal planning.”
“You are?” I laughed.
“No, not usually. People buy stuff that you don’t even want to think about putting together for a meal.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“Like…prunes and ground beef,” he said. “Lots and lots of both.” He made a face.
“Conor,” the cashier, an older woman, said in a weary, warning tone. “More bagging, less commentizing.”
“Commentizing?” Conor dropped a loaf of Italian bread and a package of thin spaghetti into a new plastic bag. “Mary, you are making up new words every day.”
“I have to do something to amuse myself,” she said. “You sure don’t help.”
“Help? Did you say help?” Conor cleared his throat. “Yes? Okay. I’d be glad to help you, Miss,” he said in a loud voice.
“Miss?” I repeated as I followed him out the automatic doors, past a bunch of giveaway newspapers in wire displays and a collection of carts and baskets. “Since when am I a Miss?”
“What do you want to be? Ma’am?” He quickly wheeled the metal cart toward the door.
“How about just…how about you let me carry my own bags?” I said.
“We have a rule here. Two bags’ worth, and you get me,” he said.
“Remind me to shop lightly next time, then,” I said. “Anyway, what’s in that bag? One thing?”
Conor laughed and strode out the automated exit doors ahead of me. “I wanted some air, okay? It gets boring in there.” He turned to the left as we headed across the parking lot, just as I turned right.
The cart smashed into my shin, then its wheels rolled right over my foot. “Hey! Watch it!” I cried. I jumped back out of the way, and Conor stopped in the middle of the lane to apologize.
“Look out!” I said, pushing Conor as a car came toward him, and he grabbed the cart to catch his balance.
The car veered around Conor—and instead sprayed me with slush as it went past.
“You are a seriously dangerous person. You know that?” Conor commented as he wheeled his way out of the driving lane.
“Hey. I’m the one who just got her foot run over. Not to mention drenched.” I looked at the bottom of my jeans, which were now soaked with water and slush.
“Like it hurt. There’s nothing in this basket,” Conor said as we started to move toward the minivan again.
“Then why are you carrying it out for me?” I asked.
“I told you! I wanted some air. Do you know how boring it gets, arranging things in geometric shapes in bags?” he asked.
I laughed. “Well, enjoy the fresh air. By all means.” I lifted the back of the minivan and he put the grocery bags inside, even though I could have done it myself with no problem. I hoped he wasn’t expecting a tip.
“Well, thanks,” I said, closing the hatch.
“No problem. Sorry about your foot,” Conor said.
It was hard to take him seriously when he was standing there in an apron. “You should take some time off or something,” I said. “You work too much.”
“Oh, yeah? This, coming from someone whose idea of work is collecting text messages?” he scoffed.
How could one person be so nice, and so rude, at the same time? “Okay, well, bye,” I said. “Have a great night.”
Well, at least I didn’t have to worry about what had happened that morning. Things with Sean were fixed, and fine. Things with Conor were back to normaclass="underline" in other words, strange.
Chapter 12
“Excuse me,” I said as I climbed into the small, red pickup truck. “But what are you doing here?”
Shouldn’t you be at work? I wanted to say. A double latte goes unmade right now because of you.
“Ask him.” Conor didn’t look thrilled as I scooted over across the bench seat to sit next to him. Sean climbed in after me and slammed the door closed.
“Don’t slam it,” Conor said, aggravated. He looked like he needed a few more cups of coffee or something. I remembered Paula saying that he wasn’t a morning person.
“I didn’t slam it,” Sean protested. “I closed it.”
I sat there between the two of them: Conor was behind the wheel, my left leg was jammed against the shift-stick, and Sean was as close as he could be to my right leg. The mattress for the charity event was tied to the roof, on the truck topper.