Page 22 of Endgame

Ice cream.

That’s all my overstimulated brain can recall. You’d think after visiting the grocery store alone, gee, I don't know, hundreds of times, I would have learned by now to bring a freaking list and never to grocery shop hungry.

Dave called this morning to let me know Chevy was ready to be picked up. I couldn’t get there fast enough. I booked the earliest Uber I could find, shuttled myself to the shop, picked up my baby, and drove straight to The Market, my town’s grocery store, without so much as a list in hand.

After living off frozen pizza for two days, my fridge and stomach are long overdue.

It feels nice to get out of the house.

I’ve been pitying myself for too long now, holding myself up in my sparse apartment, staring at blank walls. I’ll eventually get around to hanging things. I’m not sure what I have tohang. These are those moments when I really wish I could cut out the self-neglect andtryto meet someone.

It’s too bad I know how much of a burden the weight of my pain can be, and I’m not willing to leave heartbreak to chance. With my luck, I’d fall fast and hard—meanwhile, nothing would be reciprocated.

Upon entering the store, I set out on Aisle 10 to load up on all of my favorites, ones that will most definitely add to the junk in my trunk. Why live if you can’t enjoy what you eat? Food gives curves to the places made to be curvy. At least that’s what I tell myself.

Cheez Itz - extra toasty.

Oreos. Only ever the gluten-free ones. So much better.

Chewy Chocolate Chip Cookies.

Milano cookies?Please. Definitely add to cart.

Slap me with a memory; they’ve got frosted animal cookies with sprinkles. Ten-year-old me fought hard for those bad boys.

I’m all but dancing as I rumble into a fit of excitement, “Mama’s eatin’ good tonight!”

I’m only getting started.

Mid shout, I’m startled by a growly throat clearing behind me. So this is where it all ends for me? Gracelessly, frozen in humiliation, with a cart full of cookies. What a way to go.

Turning my body to see the culprit of my embarrassment, I’m confronted with tattoos and ocean eyes. Have mercy.

“Twice in one week, angel?”

I’m rendered speechless. My eyes must be as enormous as saucers because Callaway is looking at me like he caught me with my pants down, and I haven’t realized it yet.

He’s enjoying this. I need to form a response and fast.

“A girls got to grocery shop, Callaway.”

His eyes hold back his noticeable humor. Seconds later,he’s leading his cart in my direction, and my panic starts to set in.

“If I had known all it would take were cookies to get you to smile, I would have pulled out all the stops.” His grin turns brighter.

“I’ll do just about anything for cookies. This is what us dark and twisty people like to call groceries. Food for the wicked.”

He’s making small talk, and I’m not sure why. I’m entertaining his conversation, but my mind is throwing up warning signs telling me to evacuate.

“I’m beginning to think nothing about you is as dark and twisty as you claim to be.” He needs to stop doing that—looking into my soul and stuff. It throws me off guard. I need him to be Navy’s older brother, the overprotective guy who doesn’t give me the time of day, says “hi”, and carries on.

He’s being unpredictable, and it’s making me unable to think logically.

“I’ll have you know; I drink my coffee black—like my soul.”

Callaway chuckles, propping his arm against the metal shelf, steadying himself in place.

“Or maybe it means you’re simple. I wouldn’t call that a bad thing.”

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