Page 75 of From Now On

He parks and shuts off the car. “You’ll be there, right? If I do make it?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I assure him. “I’ll even skip class.”

Hart grins. He and Phillips made fun of me for not missing Friday’s lecture. “Attaboy.”

It starts sprinkling as we cross the asphalt, headed for the supermarket’s automatic doors.

“I’m so damn sick of the rain,” Conor grouses.

“Maybe you’ll get drafted to Florida,” I say. “Solid team, sunny, and plenty of ocean for Harlow.”

“Yeah, except she actuallylovesthe rain.”

“Dude, now you’re just being difficult,” I say as I grab one of the metal shopping carts. “No place is perfect.”

“Says the guy bummed out because ten grad schools are begging for him to attend.”

“No one’s begging,” I mutter.

Most of them did offer me pretty generous scholarships, though, so point taken. Options are a luxury.

“Doritos are on sale. Sweet. Cool Ranch?”

“Sure. Grab ’em.” I continue down the aisle, stopping in front of the baking section to study the Jell-O mix flavor options. They have lime, so I grab a box and toss it in the cart.

Conor groans, then tosses a bag of chips on top. “Seriously?”

“Have you ever even tried it?” I challenge.

A grunt is Hart’s only reply.

We grab two loaves of multigrain and some bananas before heading toward the checkout. I pause in the refrigerated section to pick up a container of soy milk. Eve drank her coffee black yesterday.

Conor’s eyebrows lift. “Since when do you drink soy milk?”

I ignore the question. “Is that everything?”

Hart scans the contents of the shopping cart. “I think so—aw, shit. We still need eggs.”

“’Kay. I’ll grab a carton. Get in line.”

There’s only one register open, and five people waiting to check out.

“And get Phillips more blue Gatorade!” Conor calls after me.

I roll my eyes as I head back toward the drink section. I don’t get why he indulges Aidan’s weird obsessions but makes fun of mine.

They’re out of blue Gatorade on the shelf, so I have to convince one of the yawning employees to grab a case from the stockroom in the back. By the time I make it back to the register, Conor is second in line to check out. I’m glad he stayed, because there are at least ten people waiting behind him. I have to squeeze past them all—knocking a packet of gum off the shelf—to stick the Gatorade under the cart.

Phillips owes me.

I pick the gum up, go to set it back, and then just toss it in the cart. My stomach is growling from the combination of exercise and no food, so that’ll give me something to chew on until we get back to the rental.

The drizzle is coming down faster when we exit. Luckily it’s a short trip across the parking lot.

I help load the back of Hart’s car as quickly as possible, grab my gum, and climb in the front. Water droplets are coasting down my hair and soaking my shoulders, reminding me again that I need a haircut.

Conor runs the cart back to the entrance. By the time he returns, his gray Holt Hockey T-shirt looks black.

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