Yardley

“Here.” Bryony hands me a blue Post-It note filled with a shopping list. “Those are all the supplies we need.”

“I’ll go tomorrow.” I peel the note from the back of my fingers and stick it to the corner of my computer screen.

“We need pins, like, yesterday,” she says. “And I’m almost out of paperclips.”

“I just bought you a pack last week …”

“Anyway, it’s three o’clock. Just call it a day and go,” she says, bottom lip jutting forward as she shrugs. “We haven’t had a customer since eleven. I promise you’re not going to miss anything.”

My sister leans across my desk, saving the spreadsheet on my computer before shutting it down.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I say.

She smirks. “Yeah, I did. You haven’t left the shop all day. You didn’t even take lunch. I’m doing you a favor.”

Rising, I grab my bag and my car keys and my empty coffee cup, and my sister escorts me to the front of the shop.

“Have fun …” Bryony gives me a finger wave before answering the phone and turning away.

Ten minutes later, I pull into a parking spot at the local Shoppe Smart, Lambs Grove’s answer to Wal-Mart, and make my way across the grease-covered, junk-littered parking lot to grab a cart from a corral.

Much to my dismay but not to my surprise, I can’t find a single cart without a wobbly or squeaky wheel.

Inside, the store is mostly void of customers, and the stench of rotting meat fills my nostrils as a team of a half a dozen workers rifle through the steak display in search of the source of the smell.

This is why I don’t buy my groceries here.

Making my way to the back of the store where they keep the push pins and thread, I turn left to cut through the sock aisle, only to find it jammed with shoppers and carts.

Is there a sale on Hanes low cut socks?

These people go nuts for buy-one-get-ones or the little packs with seven pairs instead of five. I saw some Black Friday level stuff go down over a clearance on boxer briefs once, and it wasn’t pretty.

“Excuse me,” I say, clearing my throat.

I’m ignored.

“Excuse me.” I speak louder this time.

“Go around,” some ass wipe says, as if I’m the rude one in this situation.

Exhaling, I back my cart out of the cluster fuck traffic jam and search for a different route to the sewing section. It’d be really great if my mom could prepare for these kinds of shortages in advance. I guess they know I’m always on standby to run a quick errand when the need arises.

A solid ten minutes pass by the time I cross the last item off my list and head to the front of the store to find a register that hopefully isn’t manned by full-timer Betty Cleary.

Sweetest woman.

Slowest checker.

Will talk your ear off if you let her … which is why I try to avoid her lane at all costs.

Passing the sock aisle on my way, I find it empty. All those people … gone. Like I imagined them. Shrugging, I push past and manage to snag the fourth spot in lane two, which is staffed by a freckle-faced teenage boy who doesn’t mess around and possesses the kind of quick and nimble qualities I look for in a Shoppe Smart checker.

The line moves quickly, but I snag an Us Weekly to tide me over until my turn.

I’m halfway through a riveting exposé about Brad Pitt’s sobriety when the curly-haired woman in front of me jabs her elbow into my arm three times. Glancing up, I lift my brows to see why I’m being summoned by a perfect stranger.

“Do you know who that is?” Her voice is low and soft, as one hand covers the side of her face and the other points to the man standing in front of her.

I shake my head. It looks like a guy. A tall guy. In a white t-shirt, faded ball cap, and ripped jeans, hands shoved into his pockets.

“That’s Nevada Kane,” she whispers, eyes wild and hands fluttering.

My stomach drops as my gaze drifts to the tall drink of water whose back is currently to me and the rest of the Shoppe Smart world.

The back of my throat tightens. I couldn’t utter a single syllable if I tried right now.

The woman grins in his direction before turning back to me and leaning close. “I want to ask him for his autograph for my grandson. Should I?”

Before I get a chance to tell her she’s asking the wrong person, Nevada turns around. He must have heard the fuss this woman was making.

Glancing his way, heart whooshing in my ears and mouth running dry, I tuck a strand of dark hair behind my left ear and smile. My chest is full with the weight of nostalgia and the kind of tickling giddiness that used to flood me every time I’d see him.

Nevada notices me. We’re mere feet apart. Suddenly a decade of separation has morphed into nothing more than a woman and a cart standing between us.

But he doesn’t look at me.

He was a mirage. And then he was real, standing so close I could practically touch him. But when he looked right through me, I knew …

The rumors are true.

The cashier spouts out a total before cracking his knuckles against his navy vest, and Nevada slaps a hundred-dollar bill on the counter.

Keeping back, I watch the woman in front of me fawn over him, fish around in her purse for something he can sign, and then turn back toward me gushing on and on about how excited her grandson will be when she gives him this.

While she rattles on about how gracious and nice Nevada is for being a “celebrity,” I watch him disappear out the automatic doors, his stride elongated, swift.

Not once does he turn back. He keeps on going, his back to me.

Like I don’t matter …

Like I don’t exist …

Like I’m dead to him …

Now I know the rumors are true: Nevada Kane hates me.