Hello Stranger(5)

“I mean it,” he said.

“That sounded sarcastic.”

“No, it was great. It was … mesmerizing.”

“You were watching me?”

But he shook his head. “I was just shopping for cereal. You were the one doing a cabaret show in a grocery aisle.”

“I thought the store was empty.”

He shrugged. “It wasn’t.”

“You should have stopped me.”

“Why would I do that?” he asked, seeming genuinely befuddled. Then, at the memory, something like tenderness lit his expression. He gave a little shrug. “You were a joy.”

I had no idea what to make of this guy.

Was he being sarcastic or serious? Was he handsome or generic? Was he kind to help or too pushy? Was he flirting with me or being a pain? Had he already won me over, or did I still have a choice?

Finally I circled back to: “Fine. Just … don’t help me.”

His expression shifted to wry. “I’m getting the sense that you don’t want me to help you.”

But I played it straight. “That’s correct.”

Then before I could lose any more ground, I turned to the owner at the counter—still chatting away with her friend—and stage-whispered, “I’ll be back in five with my purse.”

Then I zipped out the door.

Case closed.



* * *



I WAS WAITING at the crosswalk for the light to change when I turned back to see the grocery store guy walking out with a paper bag that looked suspiciously like it might have three very cheap wine bottles and some dog tacos in it.

I stared at him until he saw me.

Then he gave me a big unapologetic ya got me smile.

Fine. I had my answers: Yes.

When he arrived next to me to wait for the same crosswalk, I kept my gaze straight ahead, but said, like we were spies or something, “Is that bag full of what I think it’s full of?”

He didn’t turn my way, either. “Do you think it’s full of human kindness?”

“I think it’s full of unwanted help.”

He looked down to examine the inside of the bag. “Or maybe I just really, really love … six-dollar wine.”

“And dog treats,” I said, glancing his way.

I could see the sides of his eyes crinkle up at that.

“Fine,” I said, accepting my defeat and holding out my arms for the bag.

But he shook his head. “I got it.”

“Are you going to be stubborn about this, too?”

“I think the word you’re looking for is chivalrous.”

“Is it?” I said, tilting my head.

Then, as if the question had answered itself, I held my arms out for the bag again.

“Why should I give this to you?” he asked.

“Because you got what you wanted last time,” I said, tilting my head back toward the store, “and now it’s my turn.”

He considered that.

So I added, “It’s only fair.”

He nodded at that, and then, like he’d been totally reasonable all along, he turned, stepped closer, and released the bag into my arms.

“Thank you,” I said when I had possession.

The light had turned, and the crowd around us was moving into the street. As I started to move with it, I looked down to check the bag’s contents, and I saw a bouquet of white gerbera daisies. I started to turn to him next to me, but he wasn’t there—and when I spun back, he was still at the curb looking down at his phone like maybe he’d stopped for a text.

“Hey!” I called from the middle of the street. “You forgot your flowers!”

But he looked up and shook his head. “Those are for you.”

I didn’t fight him. It was his turn, after all.

If I’d known what was going to happen next, I might have handled that moment differently. I might have kept arguing just so we could keep talking. Or I might have asked him his name so I’d have some way of remembering him—so that he wouldn’t just remain, in my memory after that, the Grocery Store Guy who got away.

Of course, if I’d known what would happen next, I would never have stepped into the street in the first place.

But I didn’t know. The same way none of us ever know. The same way we all just move through the world on guesswork and hope.

Instead, I just shrugged, like, Okay, and then turned and kept walking—noting that he was the first man I’d been attracted to in all the months since my breakup, and half hoping he would jog to catch up with me in a minute or two.

But that’s not what happened next.

Next, I froze right there in the crosswalk, my arms still hugging my bag of wine.

And I don’t remember anything after that.





Two


I WOKE UP in the hospital with my evil stepmother Lucinda by my bed.

And you know it was bad if Lucinda showed up.

I opened my eyes, and I saw one of my least favorite people on the planet leaning forward, elbows on knees, peering over the bed rail, flaring her nostrils and staring at me like she’d never seen me before.

“What happened?” was all I could think of to say.

At that, Lucinda went into full gossip mode, filling me in on the details as if she were talking to a random neighbor—and I can’t tell you how weird it was to be getting the story of my life from the person who had ruined it.