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Weston and I trail around behind Callum as he shops, and Weston can’t help but touch me over and over. It’s sweet that he’ll wrap his arm around my waist or hold my hand, but then he’ll get distracted and pick something up from the shelf. Several times he asks Callum, “What the heck is this, and what is it used for?” Some of these questions are directed at strangely shaped fruits, and some of them are jars of things in the international food aisle. Each time Callum has a quick answer, and a couple of times he offers to use the item in a recipe soon. It’s quite the education, and I’ve never had so much fun grocery shopping before. It’s more like we’re on a field trip than merely buying food.
When he’s not completely engrossed in looking at the groceries, Callum also bestows little touches and flirty looks on Weston and me. It’s sweet really. He says a lot with those gorgeous eyes of his. They seem to be full of promise.
About half an hour into our excursion, I get the strangest sense of being watched. A shivery feeling starts at the base of my scalp and runs right down my back. I grab the back of my neck to see if it’s wet—that’s how strong the sensation is. But there is nothing there. With one arm draped around Weston’s shoulders, Callum is explaining chutneys to him, so neither of them pays any attention to me. I pivot around quickly and look up and down the crowded aisle. It’s a busy store, but no one is staring at us. I chalk it up to my imagination until we get to the frozen food section. In this aisle, Callum is explaining to Weston the differences between custard, ice cream, sherbet, and sorbet when I get that sensation again. This time I think I see a man dart around the corner, so I take off after him. He seemed to be heading back toward the middle of the building, so I walk quickly in that direction. I see absolutely nothing out ofthe ordinary. Shoppers of all ages are milling around. Couples, singles, hired shoppers, moms with babies—just normal people buying groceries. I contemplate slipping through the door to the liquor department at the back of the store to see if anyone is hiding in there, but I don’t want to worry the guys, so I head back to the frozen food section. Weston is piling several pints of ice cream into the cart, and he looks up at me.
“Where’d you go?”
“Oh, I thought I saw someone I knew. False alarm.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “Then why do you look so freaked out all of a sudden?”
“Okay,” I huff. “I thought someone was following us and it felt creepy, so I decided on a whim to go investigate. I came up with nothing.”
He grabs me and pulls me to his chest. “Petra, if you ever have that feeling, tell us. And don’t go running off like that. I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to you!”
“It’s not as if anyone could do something to me in the middle of the market,” I protest in a crabby voice.
“You don’t know that for sure!” Weston says way too loudly.
“What’s this?” Callum asks as he drops a couple of boxes of frozen fresh fruit juice bars into the cart. I eye his goodies skeptically and he shrugs with a smile, “We all deserve an easy guilty pleasure now and then, and I love both the lime and the mango bars. Now why are you two arguing?”
“Petra thought someone was following her. I think we ought to leave.”
“Now don’t jump to conclusions. I just said I got a creepy feeling that someone was watching us, and I thought I’d check it out. I ended up seeing nothing. And besides, if someonewasfollowing us, they sure took off in a rush, and that’s not terribly threatening, is it? Just odd. Anyway, you know I have avivid imagination since I’m a writer, so let’s forget it and finish shopping before all of this frozen stuff turns to mush, okay?”
“I don’t like it,” Callum states in a flat voice. “I trust gut feelings. We have what we need, so let’s get out of here.”
And that’s what we do. While we’re piling the groceries into the car, I know all three of us are sneaking looks around the parking lot for anything suspicious—even though not one of us knows what to look for. On the way home, I keep craning my neck around to check for a familiar car, but there is a lot of traffic, and all cars tend to look alike to me anyway. I breathe a sigh of relief when we pull into the driveway and see that no one seems to be tailing the car—at least not up close. Still, it’s nice that we can unload the groceries from inside the garage with the door closed. By the time we’re done, I decide that I was being melodramatic and promise to put the whole thing out of my mind.
As we unpack all of the bags and start to fill up the refrigerator and pantry shelves, Callum asks, “Weston, do you really need fifteen boxes of Kraft macaroni in your pantry? I know the company says it keeps indefinitely despite having a use-by date on the box, but I can feed you better than this.”
Weston stops what he’s doing and opens his mouth to say something, but there is a long pause. Finally, he says, “I ah… used to… ah…” When no more words come out, he turns and walks out of the kitchen. He swipes a tear from his eye as he goes.
“Okay, sorry!” Callum calls to him. “I won’t throw this stuff out. I was just trying to free up some storage space.” He looks at me with a questioning expression, and I merely shrug.
I have no idea what just happened.
Fifteen
Weston
They both must thinkI’ve lost my freakin’ mind. Whocriesabout macaroni? I’m not a two-year-old. As I lie on my bed staring at the ceiling, the memories flood back whether I want them to or not, and my heart breaks all over again. I’m getting tears in my ears. Isn’t there a song about that? Whatever. If there is, it’s probably a country song. My life might make a good one of those, come to think of it.
I don’t know how much time passes, but I guess I finally must have fallen asleep when I hear a soft tapping on my door. I quickly wipe my face off with my T-shirt and sit up. “Come in.”
The door opens and I expect it to be Petra, but it’s both of them. “You okay?” she asks.
Callum looks apologetic and careful as they walk into the room.
I sigh and tell them, “I’ll live. I’m sorry about that.”
“You have no reason to feel sorry,” Callum protests. “I was the one making disparaging comments about your food choicesand trying to throw away something that belongs to you. I’m really sorry, Weston.”
“No, it’s okay. Honestly. I probably ought to explain a few things though, so you don’t think I’ve flipped my lid. I’m not a diehard fan of macaroni or a huge shareholder of Kraft Foods stock.” I try to interject a laugh, but it comes out like a grunt. “Those boxes are really just… uh... leftovers that I hadn’t gotten rid of yet.”
“Hm,” Petra says while Callum waits for me to say more.
“Have a seat,” I tell them, patting the bed. We all pull pillows out and prop ourselves against the bedstead getting comfortable. Callum is on one side and Petra is on the other.
