Crap. It’s just past four thirty p.m., and the entire day has been wasted by my subconscious avoidance of leaving the house.
Shame washes through me, and I scurry to put my shoes on, rushing myself out the door so I can’t change my mind.
Before I pull out of the garage, I shoot Baden a quick text. I don’t like bothering him during the day, although I know he’d tell me nothing is a bother, but I’m doing this to make sure I follow through.
Going to the grocery store. Let me know if you need anything.
There.
It’s done.
I’m committed to going because I told Baden I was, and I don’t want to fall back into weak habits.
I don’t expect an immediate reply, and I might not get one at all if he’s busy, so there’s nothing to do but put my car in gear and head to the store.
♦
This is easy.
Smooth sailing.
I’d actually forgotten how much I enjoyed grocery shopping, pushing my cart up and down the aisles with my written list in hand. Many people operate from fancy apps on their phone that keep track of what they have in their pantries as well as what recipes they plan on making, which in turn generates a customized shopping list. While I am indeed a twenty-first-century girl and I happily embrace new tech, I prefer to write out my lists, partly because I’m an impulse shopper and seeing a particular ingredient might spur an idea for a meal. Somehow, shopping from a piece of paper versus an app makes me feel like I can indulge my spontaneity. But also because I get most of my recipes from my grandmother’s handwritten index cards, and it’s just as easy to flip through them and write out what ingredients I need.
I make my way around the entire store and collect everything on my list. As I move past the paper products, I notice that all the checkout lines are three and four carts deep. I decide to take another stroll through the produce section for more fruit, and then into the baking aisle—maybe I’ll make a coffee cake for breakfast.
By the time I roll back to the registers, the lines are just as long as before, so I settle in for a wait.
Twenty minutes later, I’m checked out and have all my groceries bagged and loaded into my shopping cart to wheel out to my car. I move to the motion-sensor sliding doors, mentally calculating the time I have to get everything going so we’re not eating too late.
The doors slide open, and I come to a dead halt. It’s dark outside. The sun set while I was taking that last pass around the store.
Which I now realize was probably an avoidance of leaving the safety of the store and walking through a parking lot.
I look outward and can actually see my car parked no more than thirty yards away. While the night sky is dark, there’s adequate lighting all around. People push carts out the door and other people walk in.
It can’t be any safer.
Taking a deep breath in, I let it out slowly.
You got this, Sophie. Just a short walk through a well-lit parking lot with other people around.
Easy to do.
Just need to go.
One foot in front of the other.
Nothing happens. I’m frozen in place, my body unwilling to do what my brain is ordering.
Maybe I need a running start.
I wheel my cart around and push it back into the main part of the store. I hang a right before the registers and start toward the produce section, making an outer-perimeter loop counterclockwise around the store. I pass the meat department, seafood, and then dairy. I walk to the frozen section, jonesing for a tub of ice cream because sometimes I can be a stress eater. I ignore the temptation and determinedly head toward the exit.
I push my cart a little faster.
The doors glide open, and I tell myself to keep going.
Go, go, go.
A growl of frustration warbles out as I yank the cart to a screeching halt.
I can’t do it. Too much could happen between here and my car. I know all too well all the bad things that could occur.
♦
It’s six thirty when Baden texts. Where are you? I’m at the house and you are not.
I’m sitting on a bench just inside the sliding doors. I’ve been here since a kindly manager took my cart and put it back in one of the refrigerators that hold produce.
This came after she observed me make at least five laps around the store, trying to get up the courage to leave. Admittedly, she was suspicious that I was up to no good at first. But when I told her why I was having trouble leaving, she was sympathetic.
She offered to walk me out to my car, and I declined. She offered to have one of the big, burly stock boys walk me out, and I declined that as well.
Neither of them could protect me if something bad happened, and I didn’t want to put them at risk. Besides, I wanted to do it myself and I sat on that bench trying to work up the courage to move.
It never fucking came, and when I realized I was succumbing to cowardice and wasn’t going to be able to do it, I shut down and did nothing but sit there.
I had promised Baden a delicious, aromatic shepherd’s pie for dinner. And yet I’d completely failed in my ability to prove to myself, and everyone else, that I was finally past my irrational fears.
I had become an utter failure.
I stare down at my phone. How to answer Baden?
I suppose with the truth.
I’m at the grocery store.
He replies immediately. Didn’t you leave to go there a couple of hours ago? How many groceries are you getting?
He has no clue. He thinks I’m on a shopping spree when in fact, it took me no more than twenty minutes to get what I needed.
I type back to him. I can’t seem to leave.
I wait for him to make another joke. I’m being vague because I’m too embarrassed to admit I’m terrified.
Instead of texting me, my phone rings. It’s Baden on the caller ID.
My voice is cheery and fake. “Hey… what’s up?”
“You’re scared.” It’s a statement. There’s no guessing.
“No,” I say fervently.
Baden isn’t buying it. “It’s dark, and you have to walk through a parking lot. It’s the same scenario as the night you were attacked. Of course, you’re scared, and that’s okay. Just wait and I’ll be there ASAP.”
“No,” I exclaim. “I can do it. I just need a little more time. I don’t need you coming in to rescue me.”
“I’m not going to come in to rescue you,” he assures me. “You’re going to walk out on your own, but just wait until I get there.”
I try to stop him, but he disconnects. With a sigh, I approach the manager’s desk and ask for my cart from the refrigerator. It’s do-or-die time.
Just as I make it back to the doors, Baden calls. “I’m here, and I can see you,” he says. “I want you to walk out to your car now.”
My gaze roves over the parking lot looking for Baden’s silver rental. He was going to have his car shipped out from Phoenix but decided to just get a new one. We haven’t had time to look yet.
“I don’t see you.” I hate how pathetic I sound.
“I can see you.” His voice is soothing and sure. “Trust me. You’re going to be totally fine, and I am watching over you.”
I can’t locate him, but I trust him when he says he’s out there somewhere. He may have parked farther back past the glow of the lights, or he may be over to the left or the right beyond where I can see.