Page 76 of What We Break
"On whatever you want."
The way he says it makes my face heat. His grin widens.
"You're enjoying this," he says while I'm picking through lemons. He's leaning on the cart, watching me with this soft look that makes me completely forget what I'm doing.
"What?"
"Teaching me stuff. You light up when you explain things." He reaches out and tucks that same strand of hair behind my ear. It keeps escaping. Story of that strand's life. "It's beautiful."
Do I? I hadn't noticed. But now that he says it — yeah. I am having fun. And the way he's looking at me makes me feel like the most interesting person in the produce section, maybe the whole store. And that's saying a lot since there's a woman in her seventies near the strawberries wearing a full on kimono and what looks like a Davy Crockett hat, complete with raccoon tail. That woman has seen some stuff.
"I like helping people."
"I know. It's one of my favorite things about you."
He says it like he's telling me the weather. Like it's a fact. But one of my favorite things about you implies a list. A whole list of favorite things. About me.
"Come on," I say before I spiral into cataloging what could possibly be on that theoretical list. "Let's go find you some actual food."
In the meat section, Reid reveals that his idea of protein is whatever's cheapest and requires zero brain cells.
"Reid. You've been buying the pre-formed burger patties?"
"They're convenient!"
"They're barely meat."
"They taste like meat. Meat-adjacent. Meat-ish." He picks up a package and squints at it. "What's wrong with them?"
I show him how to read the labels. Explain the difference between cuts of chicken. Point out what to look for in ground beef. Basically give him the crash course I wish someone had given me six months ago.
"This is like having a personal nutritionist," he says, watching me compare prices.
"Don't get carried away. I'm not that good at this yet."
"You're good enough to keep yourself fed with actual vegetables. That's more than I can say." He puts the pre-formed patties back with exaggerated sadness. "Goodbye, old friends. Laine says you're not real meat."
"I didn't say that."
"You implied it. With your eyes."
We're in the cereal aisle when it hits me how easy this is. Reid pushing the cart while I cross things off my list. Both of us debating different brands like the fate of the world hinges on granola clusters versus flakes. His hand keeps finding excuses to touch me — tugging the hem of my shirt, brushing lint off my shoulder, resting on my hip as he reaches past me for something on the shelf.
Each touch is casual. Each touch lights me up. His hand keeps finding me like it has its own agenda, independent of the rest of him. I don't think he even notices he's doing it half the time. And that's what gets me — the unconsciousness of it. Like touching me is just what his body does now.
I've dated guys who couldn't be bothered to hold my hand in public. This is so much better.
"Question," Reid says, stopping in front of the massive wall of breakfast options. He spreads his arms wide like he's presenting a game show. "How do you choose between like forty different kinds of cereal? This is overwhelming. There are too many options. I'm paralyzed."
"What do you usually eat for breakfast?"
"Coffee. Sometimes toast if I'm feeling fancy."
"Reid!" I turn to stare at him. "Breakfast is the most important meal of the day."
"That's what Blake says. Right before he hands me a piece of toast and pushes me out the door." He picks up a box with a cartoon character on it. "What about this one?"
"That's for children."
