Page 8 of The Ones We Fight For

“Thanks.” He blinked, giving her a short nod. Walker glanced down at Talia’s bare feet with an unreadable expression, then walked off toward the checkout.

Chapter 3

Walker

Two hours: that was how long it took to go grocery shopping for a family of six. Walker was woefully underprepared to navigate aisles and aisles of products he hadn’t even known existed. Each and every time he’d been to a grocery store before the accident, he’d always beeline for the basics: spaghetti, taco ingredients, Top Ramen, and canned soup. On top of that, he ran into at least four people he barely knew, all of whom felt the need to bring up Cole and Paisley and murmur their condolences. In retrospect, he should have worn earbuds or something to make himself seem unapproachable. While, technically speaking, the folks were nice, Walker would have rather gouged his own eyes out than spend five minutes of the time he was supposed to be using to find provolone cheese talking to Cindy-what’s-her-name about that one time she went to the same PTA meeting as Paisley.

People never knew how to act around him anymore. Walker wished that meant everyone would just avoid him, but it seemed the opposite was true. Random passersby came out of the woodwork to tell him that they once went to a barbeque where Cole was also in attendance. At the end of the two miserable hours plodding around the store, Walker wanted to scream, “I get it, Jim. You want to feel connected to Cole and Paisley somehow by pretending you know them and therefore understand the loss we’re going through, but the truth is, you’re pulling all of your memories out of your ass, where you should have left them! For the love of God, spare me the theatrics and tell me where I can find the damn provolone cheese?”

Maybe he might have been a little on edge after one too many encounters with Jeff Cohen’s daughter. Walker shook his head, scoffing to himself.

Who walks around without their shoes on? And why the hell did you look at her feet like there was something to see?

Walker didn’t even like feet, because he wasn't a foot fetish person, but his gaze had easily slid down to Talia's coral painted toenails nonetheless. He ultimately decided it was a natural reaction to the fact that Talia was an objectively attractive woman. He had eyes. If someone showed up unannounced in town looking like a freaking model, people were going to notice. But Talia was also the daughter of someone Walker wished was still alive just so he could have the opportunity to choke him to death. So, all of those natural thoughts he was having needed to be locked up in a deep, dark corner of his brain and stay there.

Finally finding himself on a sofa at the local coffee house, Roaster’s Republic, Walker added grocery shopping to the list of things he abhorred but would have to train himself to enjoy and Talia Cohen to the list of sympathizers who pretended to care but really didn’t.

Roaster’s Republic was one of the many places in town that had hired Paisley as their interior decorator, and it showed. The inside had a steampunk feel, with Edison bulb lighting and pipe shelves decorated with art from various local painters. The couch Walker always sat on was both practical and decorative. Not only did the brown leather match the general vibe, but it was comfortable enough that he could sit for hours on end working and never feel like his ass was about to fall off.

After the rush of morning to-go coffee orders was fulfilled, the crowd at the coffee house usually dwindled enough to where Walker could finally focus. He pulled out his laptop to retrieve the notes on his most recent movie watch, ready to bury himself in work. The only problem was that he couldn’t, for the life of him, remember the beginning of the movie, and his notes were a far cry worse from his usual standard. Walker had been so easily distracted lately that his notes were barely legible. It didn’t help that the novel adaptation he was writing was of a romantic comedy, which automatically made him think of Cole and Paisley. It shouldn’t have, considering the guy in the movie was a total dipshit and the girl was one of those wallflower types. Walker was shocked to find that the script writers didn’t pull a “the girl takes off her glasses and suddenly everyone realizes she’s been beautiful the whole time,” or a “she gets a makeover from her gay best friend who stereotypically doesn’t have a real role in movie other than to be the gay best friend.”

What was wrong with glasses, anyway? Walker actually thought glasses were kind of sexy. Especially reading glasses, because people had them for the sole purpose of reading and reading was an inheritantly sexy pastime. He didn't make the rules. And where was the movie about a gay guy who absolutely despised fashion and got annoyed when people asked him to dress them up? This man would strictly wear flannel and say, “put a shirt on, Karen, I don’t give a fuck. Not every gay guy’s favorite movie is The Devil Wears Prada!” when asked for a makeover. Why was there always a dress-up montage and never a friend rightly pointing out that changing your entire personality and appearance for a relationship was a red flag?

Walker often had entire dialogues in his head that he felt compelled to write out, despite knowing they would never leave his computer. If he didn't write them down, his brain would hyperfixate on the thoughts until they ran cold.

After fleshing out several pages of back-and-forth dialogue for the characters he’d created on the spot, Walker finally opened the blasted movie, reluctantly preparing himself to rewatch it from the beginning. Sitting back against the cushion, he took a long sip from his black coffee and did his best to focus as the stereotypical overhead shots of whatever locale the movie took place in panned across the screen with the credits.

“What do we have today?” Walker murmured to himself. “New York, San Francisco, or a small farming community?” It was always one of the three, or somewhere near a water source.

A bird's eye view of the Golden Gate Bridge popped up, and Walker smiled to himself. “San Francisco, it is.”

“A vanilla latte, please.”

The voice reverberated in Walker’s ears, and he aggressively hit the spacebar on his laptop, popping one earbud out as he swiveled to look over his shoulder.

Of course. Of course she’s here.

Talia Cohen, in all her heeled glory, was at the counter, inserting her card into the chip reader just how she kept inserting herself into his day. Secretly, though, Walker was grateful for her advice on proper period products and even more grateful for the last-ditch advice on medication. When he had arrived back at the house, Pearl was hunched over looking like she wanted to vomit. Thanks to Talia’s meddling, he could actually do something about it, but Talia didn’t need to know that. He wanted to continue pretending that the chocolate candy bar he’d bought Pearl in the spur of the moment at the register was the reason Piper had looked at him like a freaking superhero—Menstrual Man, if you will.

Nope. Dumbest thought to ever cross your mind. Much like deciding to go to Lydia’s Grocery to begin with.

Walker’s eyes traitorously swept over Talia’s figure as she leaned over the counter to grab her latte. Pressing her hips into the corrugated metal siding, she took a long, deep sip with her eyes closed, which seemed borderline inappropriate to be doing in public. When she turned around, presumably to grab a seat, she froze, catching sight of him. Walker schooled his expression into one of vague annoyance to hide the fact that he had been staring.

“You following me around now?” He cocked his head with haughty disdain.

“Yeah, I just love being in the company of people who want nothing to do with me,” Talia threw Walker’s earlier words back. “I didn’t realize being the daughter of an asshole barred me from getting a latte.”

“Lattes, no. Lattes infused with booze, yes.”

The blunt way it came out of his mouth made Walker inwardly cringe. It was a low blow. He knew virtually nothing about Talia. It wasn’t like she herself had plowed into his brother’s car. He did get off on getting under her skin, though, and he deserved a little entertainment in his life. The cheesy movie he was about to watch was not going to do it for him.

It seemed his comment had the desired effect. Talia crossed her arms over her chest, staring daggers at him. Then, without speaking, she put her coffee up to her full, annoyingly perfect lips and threw it back like a shot glass. She cocked her head to the side as if to say “bite me” and jostled his shoulder with one hip on her way past the couch. She chose the farthest seat available, but it wasn’t a large coffee shop, so she was still in plain sight. Pulling a book out of her purse, Talia slipped on a pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses and opened a thick paperback novel to a spot near the back where she had doggy-eared the page.

So, she’s into damaging books, then.

Destruction seemed to be a theme with the Cohen family. The irrational impulse to grab the current novel he was reading from his laptop bag and un-doggy-ear the spot he had marked the night prior was overwhelming. Instead, Walker pulled the sleeve off of his drink and fashioned it into a makeshift bookmark, since he didn’t own any real bookmarks—added to the list of things he should obtain to become a real adult—and reached for his bag.

While Walker dug through the many gum wrappers strewn throughout the large compartment to find the goddamn novel, his cell phone started buzzing in the side pocket. Forgetting the novel completely, he pulled out his phone, swallowing, petrified, at the caller ID. Archwood High School. His mind flicked through any number of possible disasters. Colin, Piper, and Carter all attended Archwood High. The hope that the school was somehow calling to request Walker’s presence in the principal's office for something he had done back in the day crossed his mind. A ridiculous thought, but his thoughts tended to lean toward desperation since the accident.

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