Page 53 of Ten Hammers

He tugs me down a row and I draw in a little breath. Picnic baskets. So many picnic baskets.

“Are we going on a picnic?” I ask, my smile so wide my blushing cheeks ache.

“You missed breakfast, so I thought brunch might be in order,” he nods, while scanning the selection. He keeps flicking his eyes at me, I guess wanting to see if there’s any one in particular I want, but I can’t take my eyes off him.

It’s so natural, so easy, with Jack.

“Is the heart-shaped one too cheesy?” he asks.

“If you were asking one of your brothers, they’d definitely say yes. But I love it.”

Jack pulls the heart-shaped wicker basket down off the shelf and examines the tag attached. At first I think he’s checking for the price–should I offer to pay half?–but then he reads, “A service for two, including hand-blown wine glasses, porcelain plates, stainless steel flatware, cloth napkins and a corkscrew. Sounds like everything we need, except… let’s see…”

A few rows over, we find sleeping bags and blankets.

“Hmm, teddy bears or smiley faces?” Jack muses, eyeing the blankets. “Or should we get both? Yeah, we might want both. One to sit on, one to wrap around us if we get cold.”

I raise an eyebrow. “There are other ways we can warm up if we get cold.”

He winks at me. “On second thought, let’s go with the plaid. I can’t make out with an audience of teddy bears or smiley faces watching me. But we’ll get an extra, just in case.”

He grabs two of the plaid blankets and sets them on top of the picnic basket. My chest feels like he’s taken a piece of my heart and laid it down on the basket, too, nestling it in the cozy warmth of the blankets.

Okay, that’s kind of a gross image, but I’m not able to think rationally when he’s leading me to the register, carrying the basket and blankets he plans to make out with me on.

We get in line for the register and are deciding whether we should add a bag of M&M’s, a bag of Skittles, or both, when the woman behind the counter suddenly exclaims, “You’re Jack Hammer!”

We both whip our heads in her direction, wearing our automatic, professional smiles. He disentangles his fingers from mine, letting go of my hand.

Okay, well. You’re going to be dating all ten of them. Probably shouldn’t be seen holding hands with any of them in public until you’ve chosen one…

“I used to see you come into this place when you were just a young little guy,” the cashier goes on, beaming. “You probably don’t even remember an old woman like me. And now here you are, all grown-up and so famous. And so handsome, all of you Hammer boys! Isn’t this something!”

She doesn’t seem to notice me at all, or if she does, she doesn’t care enough to even let my presence register.

In fact, she tries to peer around me, frowning as though I’m in her way. “Where’s Cynthia Sinclair?”

Jack’s demeanor shifts, a flicker of embarrassment in his eyes as he glances at me and then answers, “We’re not together anymore.”

“Oh that’s terrible! She is such a lovely girl. Just such a beautiful girl! And you two made such a gorgeous couple! The babies you would’ve had!”

“Well, we’ve gone our separate ways,” Jack says, his voice terse.

The woman behind the counter doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, she continues to gush about Cynthia.

Then she notices the basket. Not me. The basket.

“A heart shaped basket! You must’ve moved right on then!” Her eyes flick to me. “Oh my soul! You’re Winnie Wainwright. I didn’t recognize you at first.”

I hold my breath, waiting for her to say I look bigger on television, or I look smaller on television, or something to that effect, because it’s happened enough times I can predict it coming.

“So sweet of you to help Jack pick out a picnic basket for his new lady,” she says. Which is somehow worse than commenting on my size. It’s like it doesn’t even occur to her as a possibility I might be that new lady.

Will people feel sorry for Jack if they knew about our deal, knowing he went from someone like Cynthia to someone like me? I’m certainly not a rebound or practice girl, but “girlfriend” doesn’t quite feel right either. Not when I can’t shout our relationship from the rooftops, or dance around the shop singing about it. Not that I would ever actually do that, but still. Keeping it a secret is kind of a bummer.

“I wish I could’ve told her,” Jack says, as soon as we’re in the parking lot. “That you’re my lady.”

And that’s all that matters.

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