True (True Believers #1)(27)
Author: Erin McCarthy

“Cancer wasn’t your fault, Rory. Hell, if she hadn’t gotten pregnant, maybe she wouldn’t have caught it at all the first time, and she wouldn’t have had even those seven years.”

“Yeah, maybe you’re right.”

As we walked into the grocery store, my small cold hand wrapped in his big callused one, I marveled at the strange places and people we could draw comfort from, when we didn’t even know we needed it.

Chapter Nine

I had never grocery-shopped with anyone else before. By the time I was around sixteen and had my license, my dad and I had taken to shopping separately, filling the kitchen with our own personal preferences. My dad gave me fifty bucks a week to pick up what I wanted, and I gravitated toward yogurt and vegetables to snack on, and on occasion, lean meats to cook for my dad and me. Rarely, if ever, did I buy something out of a can. Tyler bought only cans.

As the pile of processed and packaged foods like SpaghettiOs and jellied cranberries grew higher in the cart, I asked, “Do you have a problem with fruits and vegetables?”

He shrugged, grabbing crackers and the Pop Tarts Jayden had requested. “No. They just require effort. Like chopping and shit. Plus they go bad fast.”

“Like chopping and shit,” I repeated. “So cutting the stems off strawberries is more time-consuming than opening up a can of sugary cranberries?”

“Yes,” he said, like this was obvious. He was leaning over the cart, dwarfing it with his broad shoulders, and there was nothing domestic about the way he looked, tattoos and Iron Maiden shirt, his jeans sporting a few holes in the knees.

The store was right down the street from his house, and it was a business that had a firm grip on its demographics. Beer, potato chips, and marshmallows were on special right as you walked in, and there was no fancy sushi counter, no floral department, no extensive wine department like the grocery store by my suburban house. The floors were dirty, and the deli smelled like the slicers hadn’t been cleaned in longer than I cared to think about.

Maternal instincts I didn’t even know I had were suddenly springing up, and I found myself saying, “Come on. We’re swinging back through produce.”

As I put a bag of baby carrots in the cart, I told him, “You don’t have to cut these. Just eat them.”

“Why?” he asked. “They don’t taste like anything.”

“Trust me,” I told him, suddenly feeling proud of myself. I had never really thought about it, but I could cook. I made dinner for me and my dad all the time at home, and I could Google a recipe faster than anyone. This was something I could contribute to another human being, other than the assurance that someday I would put my intelligence to use. After med school. This was now. “I’m making dinner tonight.”

“Rory, you don’t have to cook for me.” He actually looked alarmed at the thought.

“Why, you don’t think I can do it?” I asked defensively, scanning the racks for garlic bulbs.

“I’m sure you can do it. It’s just . . . you saw my house. Nobody cooks in my house. I’m not even sure we have more than one pot.”

“Well, tonight I’m cooking,” I told him. “So deal with it.” I marched down aisles, adding ingredients I would need, including a bag of chicken br**sts and disposable plastic food containers I could use to keep chopped fruits and vegetables for his brothers to eat during the week.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, as I waited in the deli line for Swiss.

When I turned back around, plastic bag of cheese slices in my hand, I saw he had added a case of beer and three packs of cigarettes to the cart.

“I’m done shopping,” he said with a grin.

“Nice.” I couldn’t help but smile at him in return. “They probably won’t let you buy that with me standing next to you, though. They’ll try to card me, too.”

He scoffed. “Are you kidding me? Have you looked around? This isn’t exactly a quality establishment. Not only will they not card you, they won’t even card me. Plus I bet if you go in the back room you can get a tattoo.”

I laughed. “I’ll pass.”

He was right. They didn’t card him. The cashier didn’t even look at us as she dragged our items over the belt. I started to pull my wallet out of my purse as I saw the total climbing past forty dollars.

Tyler’s hand came out and covered mine, preventing me from taking out my money. “Rory, you are not buying this food,” he said quietly. “And if you try, I swear to God, I will lose my shit. You’re doing too much already.”

My hand stilled and I fished around under my wallet. “I’m getting a breath mint,” I lied, pulling the little box out. Sometimes pride saw us through a lot, and I knew he needed his.

It was the right response. He gave a smirk as he pulled his wallet out and counted bills. “You planning on making out with someone later?”

“That depends on you.”

“Oh, yeah?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah. If you behave yourself.”

“Wow. Getting sassy, aren’t you?”

“I am, aren’t I?” I asked in amazement. “I didn’t know I knew how to do that.”

Tyler snorted. “You’re cute, do you know that?” He turned to the bored cashier, who was sixty-five and chewing gum, her arms crossed over her ginormous br**sts as she waited for Tyler to give her his money. “Isn’t she cute?” he asked the cashier.

The cashier’s eyes swept over me, cracking her gum. “Adorable,” she said, in a completely monotone voice.

“Tyler!” I said, mortified.

But he just laughed and paid for the groceries, including the bottle of disinfectant spray I had managed to put in the cart without him noticing.

***

 “Like this,” I told Tyler and his brothers, showing them how to bring down the knife at an angle to pop the stem off each strawberry. I had chicken in the oven and carrots cooking in a glaze on the stove top, potatoes boiling beside them. The strawberries were supposed to be for dessert, served with the shortcakes I had bought. Or put in the cart. Tyler had bought them.

Jayden and Easton were standing beside me, intently studying my motion and trying to emulate it. Tyler had already set his knife down. “My fingers are too big to do this,” he declared and popped the top off a beer on the counter’s edge.

I thought he just had zero interest in cooking, but I didn’t say anything. He had been busy watching us and giving commentary on what we were doing as he cleaned the kitchen. When we unloaded the bags, he’d found the cleaner and had proceeded to scrub the kitchen table and counter, and mop the floor with it. He’d taken out the last of the trash after tossing everything that was bad out of the fridge. I hoped I hadn’t embarrassed him. That wasn’t my intention at all. But he didn’t look upset. Nor did he look like he’d never cleaned before. I had a feeling he did this more often than anyone would ever suspect but that it was a losing battle. With the filth gone, and the stench replaced by pine cleaner and baking chicken, the room was a lot more pleasant. But it was still a dingy, worn kitchen, with cracked linoleum, peeling floor tiles, and walls that probably hadn’t been painted in thirty years. A yellow phone was still on the jack, its cord entwined around itself, trailing down the wall, forlorn and forgotten. I’m sure it didn’t work, but no one had ever bothered to take it down.