Page 55 of Not Home Alone

“Thanks, but I like my milk whole, from grass-fed cows that haven’t been treated with antibiotics or growth hormones, who’ve been pampered as much as a Moody kid.”

He scowls and waves dismissively. “Whatever. I’m going to buy bacon.” He leaves the cart with me and off he goes.

Wow, we have sparkling chemistry today! At least I can enjoy the view as he walks away from me. His butt looks fine; however, the demon that possessed him this morning is leaving a trail of sulfur fumes and the scent of rotting flesh.

I woke up an hour ago, alone in bed. I guess the only way to get some alone time in the Home Alone House is to dare Grant to put his penis in you and let him give you a bunch of intense, life-altering orgasms. I will be sure to mention that in my Airbnb review. But even now, I must reluctantly admit that it will be a five-star review.

Honestly, after what he did to me last night, it will be a four and a half trillion-star review. Minus half a trillion stars for the way he’s acting this morning. I don’t think he slept in that bed with me, which is fine. I don’t remember him saying anything or leaving. I don’t remember falling asleep, and I don’t remember why I thought sex with anyone else was okay before, because now I know it was not okay. Or rather, it was barely okay. But sex doesn’t have to be just okay. It turns out sex can be kind of sensational, even when you can’t stand the person who’s doing sex to you.

I just can’t decide if that’s good news or bad news. And as he promised, it feels like his large, hard reproductive organ is still inside of me. I can’t decide if that’s good or bad news either. Or if anyone in this store can tell that I’m walking like a cowboy. My body feels ravaged, but in a great way. My brain feels like it’s made of scouring pads, but I didn’t drink that much last night. Did I? Is this what happens after you’ve had great sex? Are sex hangovers a thing that nobody told me about because they felt sorry for me? Or is my brain mad at me for making such a bad decision?

That seems right.

It was a horrible decision that I’m very glad I made. He might not be glad we made it, but that’s his problem. Once I’d finally made it down to the kitchen earlier, I’d found him staring angrily into the fridge. He was holding a box of coffee filters and an empty paper towel roll. Wearing a gray T-shirt and black jeans. He looked hot. Somehow hotter than he’d looked in his boxer briefs or naked, which doesn’t seem possible, but maybe it’s because I knew exactly what was under the T-shirt and jeans.

I’d just stood there, staring at him staring into the fridge for possibly five minutes until he realized I was there. His gaze traveled slowly down and back up my body, as if he appreciated seeing me in my sweatpants and T-shirt. But then he’d blinked, shook his head, and said, “I spilled all the coffee grounds into the sink. It was an accident.”

“Okay. Well. Could have happened to anyone.”

“It was a stupid mistake,” he’d snarled. “It shouldn’t have happened.”

And I knew what he meant. I could feel it. It hurt. But it was fine. “Right. I agree,” I said. “Obviously that will never happen again.”

He’d looked confused for a second.

“Us having sex,” I’d explained. “With each other. It will never happen again.”

I watched something resembling disappointment flicker across his face before he straightened and said, “Great. Glad I didn’t have to be the one to say it.”

He’s been extra, super grumpy ever since.

He’d slammed the fridge door shut and said, “There’s no food.”

So now we’re here, being pissy about what food to buy instead of being at the house, being pissy about not having any food.

But on the other hand—I finally had great sex! Merry Christmas to meeeee! And it really won’t ever happen again. Because the inner walls of my vagina may never recover.

“Last Christmas” is playing over the store speakers, and I sing along quietly. This is one song that I absolutely can’t not sing along to. This one and literally every Christmas song I hear. But especially this one. I open the freezer door to pull a box of frozen waffles from the shelf and then grab some butter. When I’ve turned into Aisle Seven, I spot Grant holding onto a package of bacon and staring blankly at the granola selection farther down. He’s absentmindedly flicking at the stubble on his jaw.

It’s the strangest thing. As soon as I see him, my heart lurches. I get butterflies. He’s so impossibly handsome that my body reacts to him a couple of seconds before my brain remembers that he humiliated me in front of the whole town ten years ago; we’re pretending to date each other for transactional reasons now; we had what I considered to be mind-blowing fornication last night, wherein he said pretty words like “beautiful” and “tormented”; and he’s been raining on my sex parade ever since I got up this morning. And yet, the butterflies are still fluttering around in there. My heart is still racing. I can’t quite catch my breath.

He turns his head, does a doubletake, and smiles when he sees me. A couple of seconds later, he’s probably realizing who I am—who I am to him—and why he doesn’t need to waste energy pulling the corners of his lips up for me. His hazel eyes look sad and, dare I say, tormented as he grabs a package of granola without taking his eyes off me. I push the cart toward him. He saunters toward me, places the bacon and granola in the cart, and eyes the products I’ve added.

“That’s a lot of carbs.”

“It’s a lot of love,” I say. “It’s what my dad always made me for breakfast around this time. With hot chocolate. And a candy cane.”

“That’s nice, I guess,” he says. Then he looks over my shoulder and, at the same time, my favorite Jonas Brothers song, “Like It’s Christmas,” comes on, and I start clapping and jumping up and down, because—Jonas Brothers.

And the strangest thing happens. Grant walks around the cart to take my hand, pulling me into him. One hand on my waist, he dances with me. Dances. With me. Like we’re at a 1950s sock hop or something. The demon who possessed him this morning has been exorcised by the Jonas Brothers and replaced by John Travolta. He twirls me around and then dips me.

It all happens so fast, I just go with it, but now that I’m suspended midair in his arms, I’m staring up into those eyes that are still somehow sad even though he’s grinning at me, and time stands still. He lowers his face to me in slow motion and kisses me. My eyes flutter shut. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s snow falling on us right here in Aisle Seven when I open them.

I hear applause. Four hands. Grant lifts me again, holding onto me until I’m steady on my feet. I expect to see an animated snowman and a fairy princess clapping for us, but it’s Terry and Cindy Smith. The mayor and his wife. Yes, the mayor’s wife is also named Cindy.

“Oh, you kids are just so cute, we had to come over and say hi,” she coos.

“I said not to bother you, but you know how Cindy is,” Terry says. “Big fan of young love over here.”