I throw my hands up with a giggle. “Oh, well, that explains everything.” I spin around, ready to check out. “I’m done with your organic, quinoa, kombucha, fermented self. I’m ready to go home. You coming?”
“Did you try my fermented tea or yogurt?” His footsteps follow behind.
“Hell no,” I reply, not looking back as I head to the empty register, but as I do, I reach for more peanut butter. I grab the generic brand, and he goes for the organic.
“This one,” I say.
“Not happening,” he argues, shaking his head.
“I saw it first,” I argue, gripping the jar tighter in my fingers.
“We can get both.”
“That's a waste.”
“They say marriage is all about compromise.”
“Fine,” I say with a huff, putting my peanut butter jar in the cart.
“See? Compromise. I win.”
I’ll show him who wins. Glaring at him, I grab the marshmallow fluff off the shelf and some cookies and put them in the cart. His jaw works, and I expect a comeback at my petty response.
“And I win,” I say triumphantly, straightening my spine.
He cocks an eyebrow. “What will you do with that stuff?”
“I’m going to eat it and think of you with every bite.” I smirk.
His eyes glint as they lock on mine. “Be careful,” he warns. “You might start craving me too.”
I already do, but I don’t tell him that. “I’d rather crave rabbit food.”
He steps closer, the teasing in his voice is gone and replaced by an edge. “Keep telling yourself that.”
My heart skips; just once. I hate that he knows what I'm feeling. I spin the cart around with way more force than necessary, walking off with my head high, calling over my shoulder without looking back. “Last one to the checkout pays.”
“Don’t start what you can't finish, wife.”
We are side by side at the checkout, unloading our crazy haul of groceries onto the conveyor belt, organic kale next to rainbow cereal, two peanut butter, apples, instant noodles, fermented foods, quinoa next to marshmallow fluff. It’s utter chaos, like us.
When I turn, I catch him watching me. There’s something soft in his gaze that makes my skin warm.
“What?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Nothing.”
I glance at him for a moment longer than I should before I roll my eyes, turning back to the groceries, muttering, “Weirdo.”
He speaks under his breath so the cashier can't hear him. “Yeah. You too.” A smile tugs at my lips despite my efforts to hide it.
As we exit the store with our bags, it’s raining heavily. I’m not scared of a bit of rain, so I begin walking into the thick of it to get to the car.
But the wind picks up, and I struggle to see in front of me. I spot an awning and make a beeline for it.
My cami is sticking to my body, but I have a bag close to my chest. His white top clings to his muscles like a second skin. His forearms glisten from water. I look away to stop myself from staring at him as I wait for the storm to pass.
“Fucking hell,” he spits.
