Page 60 of All's Fair in Love and Blackmail
Are you done running?
The question echoes in my head all the way out of the rec center and through the parking lot, playing over and over. Am I done running?
A small part of me bristles defensively, tries to claim I’m not running, but it’s a lie.
Mama Caine didn’t raise no liar, and as tempting as it is to lie at least to myself…I can’t. Not about this, anyway. I don’t even know what I’m running from. Love? The future? Change? Adulthood in general?
I don’t know. And how can I stop running from something if I don’t know what I’m running from in the first place?
I sigh, rubbing my temples with one hand as I open the car door. India slides into the passenger seat with a little nod of thanks, and I return her nod, closing the door behind her. Then I go around to the driver’s side and find myself wondering vaguely if I have any ibuprofen in the car.
All this thinking aboutrunningandnot runningis giving me a headache.
“All right,” I say when I get in the car. I look over at her, tired and pink-faced but definitely looking better than when we arrived. “Where to now?”
“Mmm,” she hums, the sound thoughtful. Then she shrugs. “I’m kind of hungry.”
I’d be hungry too if I ran as much as she just did. “In that case,” I say as an excellent idea springs to mind, “I’ve got the perfect thing. Buckle up, Sunshine.”
“Where are we going?” she says, and I swear I can feel my eyes twinkling as I respond.
“Wait and see,” I say, grinning at her look of confusion. “You’ll love it.”
“I wasn’t worried until you said that,” she says with a groan.
I just laugh.
“You’re scaring me.”
“Oh, stop. Have I ever led you wrong before?”
India snorts from the passenger seat, where she has dutifully covered her eyes with her hands. Still, she seems a little more relaxed now.
“Um, yes?” she says. “Let’s see. You blackmailed me?—”
“That was one time?—”
“And you threatened me?—”
“Excuse you,” I say, outraged. “I have never threatened you in my life. Just be good and keep your hands over your eyes. I’ll be right back.”
“Wait,” she says as I open my car door. “You’re leaving me here?”
“Yes,” I say severely. “So don’t peek. Do you want me to crack a window?”
“Yes,” she says, and although the word is grouchy, she slumps down in her seat and keeps her hands over her eyes. “So I don’t cook alive.”
I roll down both of our windows all the way and then say, “Still no peeking. Got it?”
“Just go,” she says, but I can see the little smile she’s trying to hide.
Progress.
I grin and thump the window opening; then I turn and hurry into the store where we went shopping together before.
Lucky, Colorado, isn’t big enough to have a giant shopping center. We have a little King Soopers that’s actually part of a gas station—you have to go to Boulder if you want multiple options or anything halfway exotic—but for the basics, it does the job just fine. I head straight to the back corner when I get inside, crossing my fingers in hopes that they’ll have what I’m looking for.
They do, but only just. I buy my single item and then head back to the car, where I find India with her eyes still closed, her nose wrinkling as she sniffs.
