Page 41 of The Pocket Pair

At his insistence (which only bursts my domestic bliss bubble a little), Chevy and I are navigating two separate carts through the produce area of Sheet Cake’s itty bitty grocery store. Like true Sheeters, we avoid the Walmart Supercenter in the newer section of town. With a sign that reads Groceries and Goods, this store is small, clean, and run by a very grumpy man named Frederick. It’s more expensive than Walmart with less selection. But Frederick is the kind of man who knows if you ever shop anywhere but here and gives you judgy eyes.

Actually, Frederick always gives the judgy eyes. They’re just worse if you walk in with the stench of Wally World anywhere on your person.

“You don’t need to make me breakfast.” Chevy puts a bunch of still-green bananas into his cart. I reach around him to grab a much yellower bunch. “Or anything else,” he adds.

He gives me a reproving look, as though he thinks I have secret plans to construct him a tree fort in the backyard or wallpaper his living room. As if.

I love his neat and tidy house, though it definitely needs some artwork on the walls and some pops of color. We made quick work of moving my stuff into his house, though I haven’t unpacked the first thing. All my boxes are in the guest room closet, which makes my life feel strangely small. Because it can fit in a CLOSET.

After we got everything but the art stuff, which I left to move another day, our stomachs were rumbling, so we made and ate the plainest, most boring sandwiches ever because Chevy has no food in his house. I insisted we come here to stock up after seeing the scrubbed clean but very empty fridge. Food first. Unpacking later.

And if I’m imagining us as a couple, doing our weekly grocery shopping for home, is that so wrong? Except in my imaginary scenario, we’d have one cart, not two, and we’d be flirting, not arguing about whether or not I’m allowed to make him breakfast. We’d also be doing more touching. A whole lot more touching.

“My schedule is really unpredictable,” he continues. “When Winnie lived with me, we just got our own stuff and ate separately.”

In my imaginary scenario, there’s also a whole lot less mentioning of Chevy’s sister.

I’m not Winnie, I want to insist, not for the first time today.

All morning as we moved my things from the garage apartment to his house, Chevy seemed intent on dropping reminders about our friendship like breadcrumbs. Only instead of using them to mark out a trail back home as we walk deeper into the forest, it’s like he’s using them to lead me out of the forest and back toward the friend- and little-sister’s-friend zone.

Every time he makes a comment lumping me in with Winnie, I deflate a bit more. I’m practically a flat tire at this point, thwapping and bumping my way along the road.

Honestly, I’m fixing to scream. Or maybe I’ll just ram Chevy’s cart with mine. It would be a whole lot more satisfying.

No matter what people say, violence sometimes IS the answer.

“How do you feel about stuffed French toast?” I ask instead. Because I am nothing if not tenacious. I am like a little, yappy dog who’s latched onto Chevy’s pant leg by my tiny teeth. And I’m not letting go until he REALLY shakes me off.

“What’s stuffed French toast?”

I almost do a little dance in place, because I knew this would get him. “Only the best thing you’ll ever eat. Once you try it, you’ll be ruined for all other breakfasts forever. You think you can handle that?”

“Sounds like a challenge,” Chevy says, knocking his shoulder into mine as he herds me toward the deli area. “I do like a challenge.”

Noted. “Do you work tomorrow?”

“I go in at noon,” he says.

“Perfect. You’ll have time to eat, recover by way of a brief food coma, then be all ready for a hard day’s work keeping law and order.”

“Sounds like a da—”

He stops himself from saying date—but only just barely. I’d like to reach inside him, yank the word date right out of his body, and stick it in my pocket for safekeeping.

Clearing his throat, Chevy amends, “Sounds like a plan.”

Thwap goes my poor, deflated flat-tire heart.

Is the idea of dating me really so horrible? I’m not sure whether I want to give my crush a Viking burial complete with a flaming funeral pyre or double down and decide that I, too, like challenges.

I swear, lately I’ve seen evidence of something here. Not a friendly something. And if that’s true, why does Chevy seem so intent on redrawing these lines?

More importantly, how desperate does it make me if I keep erasing the lines in favor of new ones? I’ve never wanted to chase a guy or be the one to initiate. I may not need grand gestures, but give me romantic pursuit!

With Chevy … I don’t know. Maybe it’s the knowledge that I’m leaving making me more risky. (Or desperate?) Perhaps it’s all the little moments lately where I swear there’s something more. Even our five minutes of fake dating felt very, very real. So, am I dangling a carrot—or stuffed French toast—in front of Chevy, just hoping he’ll give chase? You could say that.

“Great!” I force a cheery smile as I try to move past Chevy.

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