“A nightmare this past month,” she relays quickly. “It’s like he’s forgotten everything I taught him.”
Thatch glares at the side of her head as my stomach sinks. More deafening silence ensues as I glance over at Eli when his phone pings.
“Hot date?” I loathe the drip of sarcasm in my tone.
Oh, come on, Whitney!
“Not my type.”
“Oh yeah, why’s that?”
“Married with two kids,” he replies, briefly darting his eyes to me.
“What is your type, Eli?” Serena asks.
Eli closes out his screen and pockets his phone. “Not sure. These days, I’m too busy to put much thought into it.”
“Yeah, I can see that about you,” Serena answers dryly.
“Do you have any limitations today?” Thatch scolds her. “Is anyone safe?”
“I just asked a question,” Serena defends innocently.
“With the same bitchy tone.”
“Fine, I’ll shut up.” Serena crosses her arms, glaring out of the windshield.
“Come on, guys,” I project my voice and nod toward Eli. “We’ve got company.”
“Sorry, man,” Thatch apologizes as Eli glares at the side of my head.
“I’m fine,” Eli assures, “Don’t worry about me.”
“Actually, he’s just the type to get extremely nervous in domestic situations such as these. It’s a miracle he’s made it this long and hasn’t Shawshanked his way out, tunneling himself into the mountains.”
“Hey,” he whispers venomously, and I turn to face him. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” I shrug. “It’s the truth. When things get sticky, you bail.”
His jaw ticks as his stare hardens immeasurably.
“Jesus, sis, don’t mimic bad behavior,” Thatch says in Eli’s defense.
“I’m not, and it doesn’t compare. We aren’t a couple,” I declare.
“Could have fooled the eleven other people you’re rooming with,” Thatch spouts, eyeing me pointedly. He lifts a brow as I narrow my eyes at him before averting his back to the road. Just as he does, we hydroplane on a patch of ice.
“Shit,” Thatch says, attempting to correct the wheel as Serena freaks, gripping the ‘oh shit’ handle while barking at Thatch.
“That’s not helping,” I snap at Serena as Thatch recovers control of the car, again shooting a glare in Serena’s direction before focusing back on the road.
So, this is hell.
Once at the superstore, we decided it was best to divide and conquer. Eli texted us each a part of the list, and wordlessly, we all separated, grabbing a cart. Determined not to let the glare Eli torpedoed my way screw with my mojo, I hum along to the music playing over the loudspeakers. I sidestep a man minding a cart with a screaming toddler—he glances over at me as I pass, expression screaming, “help me,” as his wife sorts through a pajama rack. As expected, mere days before Christmas, the store is in utter and complete chaos as people zoom through aisles as if they’re in racing lanes—their expressions filled with panic. Desperation leaks from others who stand side by side frantically sorting through sale bins, occasionally glancing over at each other with scathing side-eyes.
In other words, it looks a lot like Christmas.
Nothing new. Just humanity taking another solid hit during a time we’re supposed to be praying for peace on earth while wishing goodwill toward our fellow men.
With my portion of Mom’s list fulfilled and confident I’ve done my own Christmas shopping justice, I breeze through the aisles as one-woman mouths “bitch” to the back of another after she purposely snatched a stocking stuffer she was reaching for from a shelf.
It’s times like these, being in advertising, that I feel a little guilt for playing my part in convincing the masses that they need a certain item in their life.
Still, I highly doubt I would ever compete for a toy to the point of arrest or find myself in a fight in the aisle of a superstore for any reason.
A red-faced woman flies by me, repeating a list under her breath as I start to pass another aisle. I do a double-take when I spot Eli looking dumbfounded in the baby section, staring at an intimidating wall of diapers. He stands perplexed, his eyes volleying from the shelf to his cell phone. It’s then I know he’s debating on sending a message to Brenden like it would be as ego-shattering as asking for directions.
Men.
Without much thought, I snatch Wyatt’s diaper size and brand off the shelf and chuck it in his cart as I walk by.