Page 23 of On Dry Land

But Spencer, with his big, soft, eager eyes, had sat next to me with his camera, and suddenly, talking hadn’t seemed quite so much of a chore as it usually did. He’s certainly more comfortable today than he was yesterday, and I highly doubt even half of that can be attributed to me. I imagine, after a night of rest and a full dinner, it’s easier to control fears and worries that loomed impossibly large while starving and exhausted.

Fighting the urge to look over at him, I slow the car down and turn into the parking lot of the grocery store. It’s less busy than I’d been thinking it would be, which is an unexpected blessing. With any luck, we’ll be able to get in and out without too many distractions. Usually, the locals let me get away with nothing more than a nod of greeting. Today, with Spencer in tow, I doubt I’ll be so fortunate.

“I’ll wait outside,” he offers as I park, firming his grip on the red backpack. I feel a quick, sharp pain of discomfort, realizing we’re so soon back to where we started. He’s once more acting as though I’m going to take from him.

“Come in,” I reply, unable to keep the bite from my tone. We’re here for him, not me. Taking the keys from the ignition, I dangle them across the center console. “You can leave your things here. We won’t be long.”

He’s quiet as we exit the vehicle but leaves the backpack where it is. I’m grateful. He’s going to draw enough attention as it is without a giant, ratty bag on his back. The Porsche keys disappear into his pocket, and I tug a shopping cart from the line, leading the way inside. I’m giving this five minutes before I call it and check out, regardless of whether I have everything I need or not.

I lead us up and down the aisles, grabbing things off the shelves with little regard for what they are. There isn’t a full-sized oven in the guesthouse, so I skip the frozen foods and instead go a little heavier on the canned soup and snacks. Bagels and cream cheese, another jar of peanut butter, two loaves of bread, and enough chips and crackers for him to throw a pool party find their way into the cart before I steer us toward the beverages. After sliding two cases of water onto the bottom shelf of the cart, I speed through the cold section, tossing in deli meat, cheese, and anything else that catches my eye. I usually prefer to get the non-prepackaged stuff, but I can feel eyes on us, and I have very little patience for grocery shopping.

“Anything else?” I ask Spencer, addressing him for the first time since we came inside. His eyes widen beneath the short fringe of brown hair, bouncing between me and the cart.

“Uhm. Not sure you can fit anything else,” he comments.

“We can always come back,” I agree, pushing the cart around Judith Long and pretending I didn’t see her open her mouth to speak.

Spencer looks like he’s in need of smelling salts as he watches the total rung up on the register, eyes following each item as it disappears into a bag before silently reaching out to take it. He loads the cart and surprises me by pushing it outside as I finish paying. When I meet him at the car, he’s hovering uncertainly at the rear of the Porsche, keys held in his hand. He gives them back and waits for me to pop the trunk as though unsure whether he’s allowed to touch the vehicle or not.

“Will all of this fit?” he asks.

“We’re about to find out,” I reply, uncaring. If I can’t stuff it all back here, he can hold some on his lap. Ninety percent of this isn’t for me, anyhow.

By the time we are on the way home, the silence in the car has started to feel slightly abnormal. He’s likely waiting for me to bridge the gap—ask questions or offer to answer any more of his, of which I am sure there are many. I’ve never been particularly adept at small talk, though, so I let it rest. Having realized that he doesn’t know this food is for him, I imagine he’s going to have quite a bit to say once we reach home.

“Need help unloading?” he offers, swinging his backpack up onto his shoulders and taking enough steps back from the car to keep him safe from an explosion, were it to do so.

“I was going to ask you the same thing.”

He frowns at me, hands clenched around the straps of his pack, eyes bouncing between me and the open trunk. Hooking as many bags as I can on my fingers, I stride off toward the guest cottage. I’ll leave it all outside in the snow for him to take or leave.

“Wait—what? Hold on.” Sputtering, he starts to follow me before cursing lightly under his breath and turning back around to grab some of the bags.

He mutters unintelligibly a few paces behind me, and when I get to the point where I can put the bags at his door and turn around, he’s glaring mutinously. I smile, and his eyes narrow nearly to slits.

“What is this,” he says through clenched teeth, in a way that’s not quite a question but more of a demand.

“Food. Help me with the rest of it.”

I can feel it as I walk past him—a ballooning of the air around us, almost, or a displacement of gravity—like he wants to reach out and grab my arm. To stop me. When I meet his eye, I can’t help but wonder if there is another winter storm on the way. I can feel the change in pressure.

He devolves into silence then, doing the same as me and leaving everything on the ground outside the cottage, making trips back and forth from the car, still carrying his backpack. Dropping the case of water down next to the door, I brush my hands off and say, somewhat sarcastically, “Well, have a good night.”

“Hey, wait,” Spencer replies immediately, taking a step toward me in sync with the one I took away. I raise an eyebrow at him, and he frowns, confusion flitting across his face as he retreats once more. “I can’t pay you back for this, and I’d prefer not to accept this much charity.”

“The point of charity is, in fact, to not expect payment in return,” I point out. He scowls, lines creasing across his forehead as his brows lower. He has a remarkably sweet, handsome face for such a feral little thing.

“It’s too much. I can get my own food.”

“Of that, I have no doubt. Consider this a legality. While you’re staying on my property, I’d prefer you to not starve to death. I haven’t got the time nor, frankly, the desire to deal with that.”

His cheeks puff out as he makes a snorting noise, the consternation replaced with incredulity.

“I’d post a video beforehand, implicating you in the crime.”

“Charming,” I deadpan and feel a little pleased with the humor that flickers to life in his eyes.

“Seriously, though, this is—I thought you were buying your own groceries.” Spencer waves a hand at the paper bags sitting on one of the only patches of grass not covered in snow. One is tipped over, bag of apples tumbling out the top.