Page 19 of Petite Fleur

Thanks, Mom.

"I believe in you." I say instead with a casual laugh and a shrug of my shoulders.

Shoot this is awkward.

How and why do I somehow keep making things worse for myself?

I have to get out of this conversation. I have to get out of this guy's orbit before he sucks me in.

I don't need to get kicked out of college because I misread a situation and ended up in the dean's office for flirting with a professor.

That would be something that would happen to me, I'm that lucky.

So, while this guy debates on his rebuttal, I give a quick goodbye and dart away from him.

Apple cider was the last thing I wanted anyway, so I'm done since I decided it's not worth the loss of real food for it.

I head towards the checkout, seeing a line behind almost every register. Of course there is, I'm going to be here all evening.

Good thing it's Friday night and I have nowhere else to go.

All the girls, plus Sean, already texted me in the group text and said that they were going out drinking, they offered for me to come, but it's not in the budget.

At least I know I will have the house to myself when I get home, and that's fine with me. I can sautee my cabbage in peace and maybe watch an old classic horror movie before bed.

That actually sounds really nice.

By the time I'm done with this mile-long checkout line, the store is almost closed. The manager even got on the intercom as I was loading the belt to tell everyone that the lines were being capped and everyone else would need to return Friday morning.

I'm really glad I got here when I did, otherwise I would have had to go home for Thanksgiving.

I head out of the store with my bags, thankful that it's only two stuffed paper bags since I have to take the bus home.

I'm only a mile from the store, but it's too hot for all that.

As I approach the bus stop, grateful that the bus is already there, he pulls away.

I try to run, to catch the driver's attention before he's too far away to stop, but the bottom of one of my bags gives away, littering my produce across the parking lot.

Shoot.

I drop down to my knees on the hot asphalt to pick up my things, feeling as foolish as I'm sure I look.

And that's not just my opinion, the entire parking lot has stopped what they're doing to watch this little display of me embarrassing myself.

I scoop up everything, shoving it into the one functional bag I have left, and pray that it can survive the walk home since the bus is no longer an option for me.

The next bus isn't for another hour, and my groceries will be spoiled by then.

“You missed one.” I hear.

Looking up, I see the same gorgeous man from inside the store. He's staring at me with a rogue bag of spinach in one hand and his groceries in a fancy reusable bag in the other.

Embarrassingly, I stand up and brush the loose gravel off of my knees before taking the spinach and throwing it into my now overstuffed bag.

Yeah, this bag isn't making it home. Heck, I don't even know if I'll make it home.

I know they say if you're skinny, you're in shape; they lied.

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