Page 146 of Just One More Thing

She lifts a bunch of basil to her nose and breathes in slowly. “Okay,” she says. “This one still has hope.”

“Proud of him.”

Her head tips back when she laughs, and there it is again. That quick hit I get every time I make it happen.

She turns toward dairy. “We need butter.”

“We always need butter.”

“That might be the smartest thing you’ve ever said.”

“Thank you. I’ve been waiting years for recognition.”

We move through the store like this. She grabs heavy cream. I grab pasta. She judges my choice of bacon. I ignore her and put it in the basket anyway.

At the end of canned goods, she stops abruptly and looks at me. “What exactly are we making?”

I stare at her. “You’re asking me now?”

“I like to know the plan.”

“First of all, this is your operation. I’m just labor.”

“That’s not true.”

“No?”

“No.” She gestures toward me. “You’re… dessert.”

I look at her.

She looks at me.

Then we both crack up at the exact same time.

“Yes,” I say, already grinning as I start walking again. “Yes, I am.”

“Jake Wheeler,” she calls after me. “That is not what I meant.”

“Too late now.”

By the time we make it to the register, the basket’s heavier than it ought to be for two people who walked in without a dinner plan.

We end up with pasta, shrimp, bacon, a bunch of dairy, a crusty loaf of bread from the bakery, produce, and a pint of butter pecan ice cream neither of us admits to getting.

Marlene’s working checkout. She’s known me since I was ten years old and stole a pack of Hubba Bubba, made it halfwayhome, then came back crying because guilt made my stomach hurt.

She eyes the basket.

Then Mo.

Then she looks at me with all the subtlety of a brass band.

“Well,” she says.

“Evening, Marlene.”

“This looks serious.”