Page 11 of The Last Special Thing

“Damn, L.A. is my plan one day.”

“What do you want to do there?”

“Drums, drums, drums.”

“Like Travis Barker.”

“Like Tommy Lee.”

“I’d rather be Kourtney than Pamela.”

“Fine, I’ll be Travis so you can be Kourtney.”

“Thanks.” The banter was so easy. She had chalked herself up to being someone difficult to get to know, but maybe it was Weston who made her feel that way.

She navigated the parking lot, swerving around a truck with a few 20-somethings in the back of the bed, sporting China-made USA sunglasses, and pulling drinks from a cooler. She ended up scoring a parking spot near the back of the lot. As expected, it was packed with last-minute shoppers. When she turned the ignition off, Art was already half out of the car. With that saunter, he was over at her side and opened her door again.

“You don’t need to do that,” she said.

“I was raised to be a gentleman.”

It was different from what she was used to. She tried to think back about how Weston had behaved at the start. She couldn’t recall if he used to open doors for her, but she didn’t think so.

They walked across the black pavement and through the automatic doors into the bright and bustling grocery store. Past the chill of the produce section, they approached the loaves of bread. Art’s hand found Amelia’s, and he laced their fingers together. It was the most natural thing in the world. Her fingers squeezed between his large ones, making her heart skip a beat.

“Oh yeah?” she asked, looking down. He seemed to do whatever he wanted.

He sang a line about her being able to leave whenever she wanted, then looked expectantly.

“Blink-182.” It was an easy one.

This was the summer of adventure after all, and she wasn’t ready to leave.

He guided her to the meager selection and picked up a pack of buns with his free hand.

“Why is it always that the hot dogs come in packs of ten, but then buns are in packs of eight?" he asked.

“That is not something I have an insider scoop on,” she replied, moving out of the way as a pack of men in red and white striped bandanas barreled down the aisle toward the beer coolers.

“Guess you don’t get a bun.” He pulled her closer to him protectively and away from the madness. Pressed against his body, she laughed through her nerves and tried to focus on the conversation.

“Me? Why do I have to give up my bun?”

“Fine, fine, I’ll get two packs of buns.”

“That’s wasteful.”

“Well, what do you want to do, Princess?’

“Oh, and now I’m a princess?”

“Two packs of both!” He grabbed the buns and led her to the hot dog selection, where he also picked up two packs.

They made their way to the self-checkout aisle, and Art took it upon himself to play cashier and scan the items. There was a flicker of a pause as he didn’t reach for his wallet. She slid her phone out of her skirt pocket and tapped it against the screen, paying for the groceries with her parents' American Express card. After he bagged the dogs and buns, they headed back to the car, picking up the conversation.

“What’s your favorite hot dog topping?” he asked.

“Ketchup. Is there another answer?”