“I can?”
“Mm-hmm. Pick whatever cereal you want too. AND we’re getting ice cream and microwave popcorn.”
The kid looks like he’s about to combust. He throws his arms around my waist. “You’re the best big sister ever!”
Annnnnnd, about to cry.
“Okay, okay, enough mushy gushy,” I say, prying him off me. “Pick your poisons, and we’ll hit the frozen goods.”
Once we get there, I send him to the ice cream while I grab the pot pies and TV dinners. The freezer door is just closing when I hear: “Well, whattaya know? An Ice Queen on the frozen aisle!”
Oh God. Not happening not happening not happe—
“You’re totally powering all these freezers, aren’t you?” Zan says, striding up the aisle with the confidence of a fella who likely owns a ton of stock in the Kroger Corporation.
I glance down into our cart full of cheap, store-brand food (minus the Gushers™, Fruity Pebbles®, and Orville Redenbacher’s® Movie Theater Butter Popcorn).
Once he gets to me, pint of Häagen-Dazs® Butter Pecan in one hand, he reaches in and plucks out our box of Toaster Treats—aka Pop-Tarts® à la Kroger.
“Unfrosted?!” He looks up at me. “Jesus, Danger, you’re a Neanderthal!”
“Get out of my basket.” I pluck the box from his hand and drop it back in the cart.
He grins and shoves his free hand in his pocket. Blinks those long, heavy lashes. Exudes his…essence.
I hate him. I hate him I hate him I hate him.
“So. Prior engagement,” he says.
I cross my arms. “Yes. Second and fourth Monday of each month is grocery day.”
“I see.”
Just then, Jax runs up. “Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough, or Fudge Brownie?” He holds up the two options.
“Both,” I say.
“Both?!” His eyes go wide.
My heart beats a little faster. “Yes, both,” I say. “Drop ’em in.”
“Who’s this little dude?” Zan asks.
“This is Jax.”
“Jax, huh?” Zan squats so he and Jax are eye to eye. “Sup, man?” he says.
“Sup?” from Jax. With a gangsta-ish lift of the chin.
Absurd, this entire situation.
“I’m Zan.” He extends a hand, and Jax shakes it. “Tell me something, man…is your mom always this grumpy?”
“Oh my God, I’m not his mom!”
Zan laughs and Jax looks up at me. “He was joking, Rico.”
Ah, so they’re best friends now. Fantastic.
Jax turns back to his new favorite (or so it feels. [Yes, I’m salty.]). “So you’re my sister’s boyfriend?”
“Eww, no!” My face and hands are blazing. Also, am I in kindergarten?
Zan laughs and ruffles Jax’s dirty-blond curls. “Only in my dreams, kid.” He stands up.
Mmmmmm…
“You guys done with your shopping?” Zan asks. “We can hit the checkout lanes together.”
“That would be awesome!” Jax says.
And so we do. Could I have really said no?
Zan even bags our groceries. Which is so freakin’ weird. Especially since he’s good at it. As a matter of fact, I don’t think I realized bagging groceries is something one can be good at until this very moment.
Actually, what’s he even doing in Kroger? Don’t people of his economic ilk shop at like Whole Foods or World Market or whatever? Do they even do their own shopping?
Who is this guy?
Once we’re outside, he says, “So where’d you guys park? I’ll help you load up.”
And before I can make up something about a ride, Jax is saying, “We take the bus, dude.”
Dude? Who is this kid?
Zan looks at me, but to my shock, the pity I’m bracing myself for isn’t there in his face. “You want a ride?”
“No thanks. We do this twice a month. We’ll be fine.”
He smirks. Narrows his eyes. “Hey, Jax, you see that Jeep over there?” He points to a yellow four-door Wrangler with gargantoid tires, a light bar on the top, and the word TONKA printed in massive letters at the top of the windshield. A Jeep I—and probably most of our town—would recognize just about anywhere.
Jax nods. “Yep.”
“You wanna ride shotgun in that guy?”
Jax turns to me, excitement twinkling in his hazel eyes. “Can I, Rico? Please, please, PLEASE?”
And, shit.
I glare at Zan-the-Man. My hatred intensifies.
“Well, big sis?” he says. More smirking.
Asshole.
“Rico, come onnnnnn!” Jax tugs on my arm.
I haven’t seen the kid this amped since Christmas morning. But do I really want Mr. Money-Bags Macklin to know where my relatively shithole-ish abode is?
“Ashley Run Apartments, right?” Zan says.
No doubt the look on my face screams How the f— do you know that, you stalker?! ’cause then he goes, “Don’t you live in the same building as Jess?”
“Jess?”
“Jessica Barlow? Blondie, cheer captain, National Merit Finalist, fierce leaderess of the NHS free world?”
Oh. Duh.
“Yeah. I guess I do.” Not that I’ve seen her in the vicinity since the other morning.
Zan whips out a pair of sunglasses that I’m sure are worth more than my entire wardrobe. Slips them on all suave-like. “So let’s ride.”
“WOO-HOO!” from Jax.
Did I say yes? I don’t recall saying yes.
But again, I can’t really say no now, can I?
What I do know is I really didn’t need another reminder of how few real choices I have in my own GD life. Fine, this is just a ride home, but it does feel like an encroachment on the little autonomy I prize probably more than any physical possession.
Man, how different would all this be going if I’d just picked the other ticket?
When we get to the Jeep, I climb into the backseat, and Jax sits up front with the toilet-tissue titan. I have qualms about this because Jax is such a shrimp and this monster-mobile has passenger-side airbags, but I can’t crush the kid’s dreams.