Page 4 of Don't Think

Correction:mybathtub.

“Well,” Nora says from behind me.

I spin around to find her standing there, arms crossed over her chest, clearly unimpressed.

At first, I think she’s mad, but then a grin slowly starts to tug at the corners of her mouth.

“If you see me in there one of these nights... don’t worry about it,” she says, shrugging.

I wink. “Anytime, babe. It’s right down the hall,” I say, probably smiling way too hard. “Alright, let’s grab our bags and hit the store before I lock myself in here with a bottle of wine.”

After fighting through the never-ending traffic, we finally arrive at the nearest grocery store parking lot—forty-five minutes later. Not the twenty minutes the GPS originally promised. Which just proves my point about howneverbeing on time is basically a rule when you’re in a city like this.

We pile out of the car and link our arms together, not sparing a second thought to the numerous judgmental glances we receive. The July heat is brutal, already making our arms stick together like glue from the humidity. My shirt clings to my back while a small bead of sweat lines my forehead.

“Alright, I’ll grab the dinner stuff,” Ana says, pulling a crumpled list from her pocket. “Nora, you’re on lunch. And Allie…” She turns to me with a mischievous grin. “You, my friend, get breakfast duty.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Why do I get breakfast?”

She leans close to my ear and murmurs, “Because I don’t trust Miss I Burn Eggs over here to make my omelets.”

“Hey!” Nora shrieks. “I heard that!”

I tip my head back and laugh, the sound ringing through the store a little too loudly. I quickly slap a hand over my mouth, realizing that half the shoppers probably heard me, but… honestly, I don’t care. It’s been ages since I laughed like this. We haven’t even been here a full day, and somehow, I already feel more like myself.

The second we walk inside, my heart swells with the thought that I can take my time here. I can look at hand soaps for twenty minutes if I want to without Lydia trying toingestone, or Charlotte asking if she can pick a snack every thirty seconds on a constant loop.

Wicker baskets line the front of the store stuffed with veggies and colorful gourds. I have no clue why they’re selling gourds in July, but whatever floats their boat. A Made Fresh Daily sign hangs above an overflowing pastry stand, and for once, I have all the time in the world to look over every single one of them. Maybe it sounds silly, but the small things really do matter to me.

Even though I complained the entire drive here, I can’t really complain about the shopping experience—yet.The aisles are oddly quiet while I wander through them, slowly weighing my cereal options. I’m trying to imagine what won’t make me hate myself during a hangover: something healthy? Or maybe something sugary?

I stand there holding each box, seriously considering it like my life depends on it. I’ll probably end up grabbing both, but the point is... nobody’s rushing me. There’s nobody standing behind me, huffing impatiently, waiting for me to hurry up andget out of their way. It’s definitely a little strange... but kind of comforting too.

By the time my cart’s nearly overflowing, I stop and stare into it, a nagging feeling creeping in like I’m forgetting something. Something obvious.

I have eggs, probably too much fruit, and all the fixings for homemade muffins… but there’s one thing I know I’m forgetting. But what?

My cell phone dings in my pocket, and I fumble for it, flip it around and read the message.

Ana

Hey! I know wine was on your list. Can you grab me a bottle of white zinfandel?

I blink at the screen. Then reread it. I do this at least four times before I give up and finally reply.

What the hell is “white zinfandel?”

I don’t even have time to lower the phone before another message pops up. This time in the form of a picture.

I squint at the screen, but all I can see is a drunk me holding a bottle of wine, making a stupid duck face.

Mental note: steal Ana’s phone and delete this from existence.Immediately.

With one hand on the cart handle and the other cradling my phone, I start toward the wine aisle, eyes flicking between the shelves and the cursed photo. It’s too pixelated to be useful, but I’m trying anyway.

“Do they even sell this here?” I mutter to myself, still staring at my screen.

And then—bam.