Page 48 of Where's Molly

“Ma—”

“Anyway, can you make it? I make the best peach cobbler.”

Her stare is full of so much hope, it's literally impossible to say no. I flick a glance at Cage, finding a dark and almost taunting expression. He wants me to answer, which only sends my heart rate escalating to dangerous levels.

He's obviously not feeling inclined to give me an out, and I'm unsure if it's because he's enjoying watching me struggle or because he actually wants me to come.

Either way, he's a dick.

“Y-yeah, of course. I don't have plans.”

“Great!” she bellows a second time and, once again, scares the same young girl, who has since wandered closer. She jumps, drops a box as a result, and scurries to pick it up, her cheeks now bright red.

Then, the frazzled customer tosses Winifred a bewildered glance, frantically tucking flyaway blonde strands behind her ear, and hurries off before she suffers from a heart attack at an age far too young.

“Cage would love to come pick you up,” she volunteers, not even bothering to check with him first. She turns to him. “Bring her over at six. And pick us up some of that good shit I like.”

My brows jump.

Cage rolls his eyes. “She's referring to wine,” he clarifies dryly.

Winifred refocuses on me. “And, for the love of God, wear something comfortable. We'll be sitting on a couch drinking and trash-talking my wonderful son, so please don't feel the need to impress me with a silly dress. I guarantee the ones in my closet are sexier anyway,” she directs. She goes to turn away but then pivots back around. “Oh, and don't let him talk ya out of using condoms. Raising kids is so 1950s. Here, if he's anything like his father, then these should work.”

I laugh when she snatches the size small condoms from the shelf and chucks them into my cart without a backward glance, then bids me farewell.

Cage's face morphs from shock to being visibly offended. “Oh, she's got jokes.”

Winifred's answering cackle can be heard across several aisles, and I'm almost positive that wherever the young blonde woman is in the store, it managed to scare her again.

Cage

Nine Years Ago

2013

“I want to returnthis piece-of-shit TV,” the old woman snaps, her gray-and-blonde hair frazzled as she slams the receipt down on the counter.

“What was wrong with it?” my employee, Silas, asks, keeping his tone kind despite the woman's bad attitude since she first stormed in. She's short, clearly a smoker, and has her chest puffed like she's tough shit. Her bones are twigs, but whatever gets her out of bed, I guess.

“It wouldn't turn on!” she exclaims, slamming wrinkled hands on the counter. “What kind of idiot sells a TV that don't turn on?”

Silas's eye twitches, and I snicker beneath my breath.

“I kept pressing the damn clicker, and nothin'!”

“Did you make sure it was plugged in?”

The woman looks at Silas like he speaks an alien language, which seems only to enrage her further.

“Plugged into what?” she yells, her voice rising. “You know what, it don't matter. Give me my money back, you piece of shit.” She tosses her receipt at Silas's chest.

It's almost impossible to contain my smile, considering I know the exact question about to come out of his mouth.

“Sure, ma'am. Where's the TV?”

Again, she stares at him like she doesn't understand.

“At my house! You think a little old lady like me can carry that in here myself? You people can't go pick it up?”

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