Page 36 of Mountain Grump
My blush deepens, but blessedly, he doesn’t notice as he chases after his child. “Ursa, quit running.”
They really must breed them differently in the mountains.
Exhaling, I look both ways, then continue on to the cookies.
Ten minutes later, I’ve doubled the contents of my cart. Mostly with frozen foods that I can hopefully get home before they thaw, and with more bakery items than any one person needs.
But it’s not my fault this small-town grocery store has a top-notch bakery section. And I think I can freeze most of the muffins and stuff if I wrap them tightly in the cling wrap I also put in my cart.
Before I exit the freezer row, I try to recall my mental grocery list.
Butter. Ground coffee. Creamer. Coffee filters. Frozen veggies, to offset the frozen pizzas. Hot sauce. Ranch, to offset the veggies. Crackers. Dish soap, because I forgot to pay attention to whether there was any. Laundry soap, because same reason. Garbage bags, with a mental note to figure out how to set up my garbage pickup—which I’ve never had to do before.
Deciding I’ve remembered as much as possible, I push out of the aisle and steer toward the checkout.
Only two of the registers have lights on, indicating they’re open. And there’s one person in each line. Which is stressful because there’s no obvious choice.
What if I pick wrong, and the other one clears out right away? Do I back up and switch lanes? Or do I stay put?
My pulse thuds, and I pull in a breath through my nose.
Get it together, Tilda.
It’s a grocery store, not an exam.
An older woman with a cart overflowing with bags of charcoal wheels her way into one of the lines, and I exhale with relief.Choice made.
Acting as though I wasn’t on the verge of a total breakdown, I maneuver into the other lane.
There’s a couple ahead of me, talking to the cashier like they know her, and I make sure to smile when they all look my way.
Reminding myself that this is all normal, and to stay calm, I unload my items onto the conveyor belt as the other three people chat casually.
I have about a third of the things still in my cart when the couple leaves, and the cashier turns her attention to me. “How you doin’?”
“Good, thank you.” I lie convincingly. “Yourself?”
“Oh, can’t complain.” She smiles. “You have your bags?”
My mouth is starting to form a matching smile, but then I replay her question. “Bags?”
“Yeah, hon.” At my blank expression, she nods toward all the food I’ve placed on the belt. “Grocery bags.”
That ache of panic starts in my chest again.
“I don’t have any.” It comes out as a whisper.
And just like that, I feel so dumb.
So out of place.
So far from home. Even if it was a home I didn’t like.
And damn it all, I think I might cry again.
But the woman never stops smiling. “That’s alright. I forget mine all the time too. We’ll do paper ones.”
I inhale, then I do what I’ve done my whole life.
