Maggie frowned, then remembered what Kit had told her: Harrison had moved in with his girlfriend right after school ended. The two of them eighteen years old. Dear God. “How is Harrison doing, anyway?” Maggie asked.
Deb shrugged. “Harrison’s still working over at the hardware store, but he’s saving up money to go to truck-driving school . . . or at least, he should be,” Deb said. “Until the latest game console comes out, and then he buys that. But that’s Anna’s problem now, right?”
Anna. Harrison’s girlfriend, she presumed. “And Anna’s doing all right?”
“Well, she’s not pregnant, thank God,” Deb said, and Maggie choked. “So I’m counting it as a win. What are you doing with yourself these days?”
“Working,” Maggie said. “Really busy.”
“Oh, sweetie,” Deb cooed. Then Deb’s eyes traveled over her, and Maggie suddenly got a sense of what she must look like from the outside. She was wearing a fleece sweat jacket, stained with something she’d eaten, over an old Siouxsie and the Banshees T-shirt, thin and frayed. Her jeans had holes in the knees, not out of any fashion sense but because they were her oldest pair and the damned things had finally worn out. She was wearing knockoff UGGs that had mud on them. She wasn’t sure she’d combed her wavy hair, which was down past her shoulder blades, and she certainly wasn’t wearing any makeup, since she never did.
She probably looked like a natural disaster survivor.
“You know what you need?” Deb said, her voice determined. “You need to get out.”
“I am out,” Maggie protested. “Look. Here I am, out at the store.”
Deb laughed, a trilling sound. Maggie felt herself scowl at it and then forced herself to pull it together. The last thing she needed was for Harrison to get back to Kit, claiming that his mother had been a bitch to Harrison’s mother at the Tasty Great.
“No, silly,” Deb said. Another quick once-over of Maggie’s clothes and hair, and her smile was even brighter, if a bit forced. “If you have a reason to leave the house, you’ll feel better. I mean, who doesn’t love a reason to dress up a little, am I right?”
Maggie suppressed a shudder.
“I don’t like leaving the house, though. In fact, I’ll do a lot to actively avoid leaving the house. Case in point.” She gestured to the industrial-size box of ramen.
“I know! You could come to book club tomorrow! I’m hosting, and you know where I live.”
Maggie balked. “Oh, I don’t . . . I haven’t even read . . . whatever book you’re reading,” she tried.
“Nobody reads the book,” Deb said with a laugh. “It’s just an excuse to have a potluck, day drink, and gossip.”
“Wow. That sounds . . .” Like hell on earth! “I mean, I wouldn’t even know anyone.”
“You’d know me,” Deb said. “That’s it, I’m not taking no for an answer. You can’t let yourself just be miserable, alone in your house! We single girls need to stick together, now that our kids are grown!” She let out that trilling laugh again.
Maggie grimaced. “I really don’t think so.”
I would rather eat my own intestines than cross your threshold.
“Well, if you change your mind, it starts at two. You might want to grab something to bring—again, we’re always up for desserts. Or booze!” Deb then moved in, giving her a quick and unwelcome hug. It made Maggie almost sad that she’d showered that morning . . . a four-day-long unbathed Maggie would’ve probably made Deb reconsider her book club invitation. Then Deb waved, pushing her own cart in the direction of the bakery section.
Maggie wanted to scream. Deb meant well, honestly. She was a raging extrovert, and she was convinced that she could solve problems with a casserole brigade and a metric ton of sunshine. The problem was Maggie was not the type to make friends. She knew she was isolated. She had been since childhood, growing up in her grandparents’ house. She’d certainly been isolated in her marriage, for a variety of reasons.
Quite frankly, she took care of herself. Anyone who told her it wasn’t healthy wasn’t anyone she wanted to hang out with.
She moved more quickly, afraid Deb might do something rash, like invite her to lunch. She loaded up her cart haphazardly, adding a case of replacement tuna, boxes of mac and cheese, frozen vegetables, diet soda. A bag of clementines, a nod to health that was quickly negated when she added a few tubs of Chocolate Brownie Thunder ice cream. Then she fled.
There was no way in hell she was going to that book club. If she played her cards right, she might not leave the house until after Halloween. That was, what, three weeks away? She could definitely make it that long. Hell, maybe she’d see if she could order some staples to be delivered, price be damned . . . although she lived far enough away that grocery delivery likely wasn’t an option.
She’d just avoid Deb. Avoid going outside. Keep her head down, do her work, text Kit and Mac. Pay her bills.
And it would all be fine.
CHAPTER 2
HEROIC SAFE MODE
“Aiden Stephen Bishop, are you even listening to me?”
Aiden winced as his mother middle-named him. “Sorry, Ma,” he said quickly.
“You picked up the wrong kind of bran flakes,” she sniped as she unloaded the groceries he was depositing on her worn Formica kitchen counters. She’d stopped dying her hair the past year, and it was now worn in a short, serviceable gray haircut that was getting a little shaggy. He’d have to remember to ask if she wanted to schedule going down to the salon. “And canola oil? I wanted vegetable oil!”
He fought against a sigh, then plastered a smile on his face. “Sorry,” he repeated.
In my defense, you just wrote “oil,” and they’re basically the same thing.
“This is why I should have gone with you,” she said, conveniently ignoring the fact that she’d been exhausted when he had offered to take her. She huffed impatiently, putting away some apples and bananas. He hoped she’d actually eat them this time, rather than let them go bad. She was still grumbling when she went off to the bathroom.
While she was out of the room, he rushed to store the rest of the groceries he’d brought in from his truck. He’d discovered that she still tried to put things up on the top shelves, which lately had become a recipe for disaster. Partially because she’d wear her house slippers on the step stool, which . . . well, often made her slip. And the longer she raised her hands over her head, the more likely she was to get dizzy and pass out. She’d already fallen twice this year, one time resulting in cutting her forehead and bleeding badly. He wanted to prevent that if he could.
When he had finally gotten all the food in its respective and easily accessible spots, he glanced around, making sure that he hadn’t missed anything. His mother’s kitchen was the kitchen he grew up in, and it hadn’t changed much. The linoleum floor was worn, especially under the dragging feet of the kitchen table. The counters were meticulously scrubbed clean, faded in specific circles to the right of the stove top and the left of the sink. The fridge was new—he’d bought it a year ago, not long after his father died. He opened up the door, doing a spot check. Sure enough, there was what looked like a cucumber that had gone squishy. Grimacing, he tossed it in the trash . . . then took the trash outside for good measure.