Page 15 of Between the Blue
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I exhale.
The silence I get as the only response I could have expected informs me that I am, in fact, not being kid.
James stands before me in the same head to toe black outfit I just saw him in at the gym. With the addition of a fresh scowl on his face.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
I know the answer is obvious. He’s grocery shopping. But that doesn’t make his lack of an answer any less infuriating.
Because my real question is:What are you doinghere?And:Why are you herenow, intruding on one of my favorite weekly rituals when you’ve already managed to impinge on my necessary daily one?
My hands tighten on the handle of my cart.
“I mean, you said to stay far away from you, but you seem to be intent on making that as difficult as possible,” I say, chuckling dryly.
James’s eyes simply flick between my own, the crease between his brows growing deeper by the moment.
My lips press together. I start to open them to say something else, but my fitness watch buzzing on my wrist cuts me off. I glance down at it, seeing the notification it’s giving me of my rising heart rate.
I wonder what that could possibly be from?
I let out a sigh, swiping the notification away and giving James a shake of my head before I pivot my cart around his, leaving him behind and not looking back as I make a beeline for the produce that I need.
Unfortunately, this store apparently isn’t nearly as big as it appears to be.
Not even two minutes later, I turn down the bread aisle to find James turning down the other side of it. I pause my cart initially, telling myself I’ll just loop back around for bread at the end of my list.
But then, I think:Screw that.
The two of us practically play chicken with our carts until we stop in the middle of the aisle where the loaves of sandwich bread sit. We both abandon our carts, marching up to the shelves of bread and inevitably having to reach across each other for my sourdough loaf and his whole grain high protein one.
A vision flashes through my mind of James eating his sad toast made out of his holier-than-thou bread in his most likely suffocatingly clean home in fully black pajamas at 9 p.m. on a Friday night– only because he was feelingcrazy.
A snort escapes me, and before I can see the glowering look it surely earned me, I have my sourdough bread in my cart and I’m speed walking out of the aisle.
But I only receive a small moment of relief, finding James once again in the deli.
And then the baking aisle.
And then the dairy section.
It’s in the canned goods and condiment aisle– desperately in need of my essential pickles and ranch dressing– that I lose it.
I squeeze my bottle of ranch so hard that I’m shocked my baby blue nails don’t puncture the plastic before I throw it down into my cart.
“What are you doing?” I ask James, marching up to him.
Of course, he doesn’t respond.
“Are you stalking me?”
I think for a moment that I might actually be hearing crickets.
I run my hands over the top of my hair, digging my fingers into my scalp. When it doesn’t do anything to soothe the tension in my head, I pull out my hair tie, allowing my light ginger hair to fall to its full waist-length, not even caring that it’s still half sweaty and tangled from the gym.
I spin away from James, knowing that this conversation is useless, and stomp the few steps necessary to where I spot my favorite brand of pickles sitting on the top shelf.
I stand up on my highest tiptoes, stretching my arm to swipe the jar off the shelf, but I fail, falling back down on my heels. I blow out a heavy breath, standing up on my toes again to begin my second attempt when I suddenly catch the sound of a low voice, clear as day, coming from behind me.
