Page 39 of Not Until Her

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Correct. Have a good night,” I say.

To his credit, he does look like he regrets it. He knows that all the times he’s said that before have stuck with me like super glue.

I think he tries to reply, but I close the door before he can. That’s enough for tonight.

I let out a strong, steady exhale, preparing myself to quickly shift gears.

Now I have to make heading to my parents house sound like the most exciting thing in the world to Dahlia, despite how often we’ve been forced to go over there lately.

13

More scanning. More bagging. More fake smiles.

I can’t wait for this sale to end. I don’t have the energy for this week that feels never ending.

A huge pile is placed on the counter before me, and I start on it before I even look up.

“Do you need any gift receipts today?”

I slide a security tag into the magnet that removes it, and of course it doesn’t just fall off like it’s supposed to. Some of these things can be so stubborn. I wiggle it a little, even give it a tug, but it’s fully stuck. I set it to the side, and decide to worry about it last.

Two more beeps of my scanner and I realize this person never answered my question.

“Shopping for yourself or someone else to–”

I lock eyes with a piercing green gaze. Instead of the harsh glare I’m used to seeing in them, there’s surprise. They’re the wide eyes of someone really taken aback.

I wouldn’t expect to see her here either, but it can’t be that shocking that I exist outside of my little apartment. She has to have noticed I’ve barely been there as it is lately.

“Myself,” she finally answers.

Thatvoice. It’s such a contrast to her actions.

I press my mouth into a line to keep from saying anything, and I start to scan faster. When I get to the last item, the one that has a tricky security tag, I grab a rubber band. It’s a trick that comes in handy in situations like this, but I try to be sly about it. I can’t go around letting just anyone see it, because I know there are ones that would attempt it in the fitting room.

When I crouch down to hide what my hands are doing, Paige laughs at me.

I hear my neighbor's muffled voice talking to her. She asks her what I’m doing, and Paige explains.

“Do you have to do that often?” my neighbor asks.

“Yeah. Those tags really suck sometimes,” Paige says.

Another customer must walk up, because my coworker breaks into her customer greeting, and I hear more hangers being thrown on the counter.

The tag pops off, and I take a deep breath before standing to face her again.

“Your total is two-hundred and eighty-seven dollars, and ninety-one cents.”

I wonder what she does for a living as I watch her reach into a little black purse and pull out a matching wallet. I can’t imagine it’s customer service that’s responsible for the funds on the debit card she finds there.

I try to peek at her name as she taps it on the screen. I’m absolutely not going to ask, she doesn’t need to know I care at all what it is. I don’t see it though, as if she intentionally held it to cover that information.

Whatever.

I don’t care that much.

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