The Do-Over(6)
Author: Suzanne Park
She scooted her chair back. “As the O’Hara twins would say, YOU GO, GIRL!” Mia paused and stifled a laugh. “Too far again?”
I nodded. “Yep. Too far and too soon.”
We gulped down the last of our coffees and walked outside into a light mist. A quick rainfall had come and gone while we were inside the café. Mia pointed down the street. “Is that a double rainbow?” Sure enough, it was. The first one I’d ever seen. I wouldn’t have noticed it at all if she hadn’t mentioned it.
Maybe I was looking at life all wrong, seeing the world through shit-colored glasses, and I’d missed out on good things right in front of me. It was something to think about as I started my college life journey . . . again. Maybe everything was looking up, opportunities awaiting me, and I just didn’t know it yet.
Chapter Four
You had six weeks to pack and purge, and you still brought way too much crap,” Mia yelled out the truck window.
She was right. All of my stuff weighed down the U-Haul, which resulted in me needing to fill up on gas earlier than expected as we sputtered into the greater Carlthorpe metropolitan area. The pump chugged along and clicked, and then the display showed the final damage. Eighty-five dollars. We still had fifteen miles left to go, and to my knowledge, this was the only gas station in the area.
Mia leaned her head out again as I recapped the gas tank. “Can you run across the street to the grocery store and buy some more snacks? I finished our stash, sorry. I’ll wash the windows with the squeegee while you shop. We can divide and conquer.”
If given the choice between grocery shopping and washing windows, I was definitely all for #teamgrocery. I hated everything about the window-washing process. Pulling out the long stick with the questionably hygienic handle from the murky liquid . . . so gross. Was it even cleaning fluid in the first place? There were no bubbles or disinfectant smells, not that I ever stuck my nose in there to confirm. The spongy head inevitably dripped brownish-gray barf water onto my shoes, even when I tried to avoid it at any cost. I hoped Mia would keep it to the front windshield only—I could see her getting carried away and squeegeeing our entire truck just to make it look uniform.
Looking both ways and crossing the street, I was feeling good about my decision to shop, until Mia shouted out her wish list.
“Sparkling water! Doritos! Salted almonds! Sour Patch Kids! Chex Mix! And alcohol!”
“That’s all?” I shouted back.
“Oh, and a shitload of condoms!”
I’d already crossed the street and wasn’t about to bellow across the busy intersection, “WHAT DO YOU MEAN, SHITLOAD OF CONDOMS?”
I texted her, Condoms??? Really??? and proceeded to enter the market through the double automatic doors, grabbing a red plastic basket along the way.
Grand Central Market still looked exactly the same, and was as overpriced as ever, but they also managed to have everything I needed. Including condoms. As a joke, at least I think it was a joke, I bought Mia the entire inventory, which wasn’t actually that vast, but by my standards, it was a shitload: four boxes of various sizes, textures, and thickness. Then I proceeded to buy the rest of Mia’s wish list, along with a diet Dr Pepper, a bag of Bugles, and a small bottle of Jack Daniel’s for myself. Passing the dairy case with my full basket, I stopped abruptly and a deep craving, a culinary pang in my very core, kept me standing there. The small tubs of sour cream were on sale, half off. The Lipton onion dip mix was right behind me, on an end display.
Serendipity.
I grabbed the container and packet and made my way to the next row: Ruffles with French onion dip were my absolute worst vice, and I only bought them when I was stressed beyond belief: during finals, after a breakup, while I was on a writing or editing deadline. It was a dietary disaster I’d picked up in college during Res Life study breaks. As I continued browsing the chip options, I considered my present-day existence—that I was Thelma and Louise road-tripping with my friend from college who had managed to graduate ten years ago while I had not—that I was moving back to Carlthorpe to finish my undergraduate degree in my thirties. My thirties, for God’s sake. Yes, these unprecedented times called for chips and dip.
I grabbed an extra bottle of vodka on sale and added it to my basket too. Because why not?
The basket handle stretched oblongly from all the weight as I waddled to the checkout line, carrying my goods two-handed. With both arms straining, I put the basket down on the floor and waited for the guy in front of me to unload his items onto the counter at a sloth’s pace.
The cashier activated the conveyor belt, leaving me room to put down my groceries as it moved. My face flushed when I witnessed the assortment of items belonging to the customer in front of me rumbling toward the cashier’s scanner: Pepcid AC, toilet paper, TUMS, two Monster Energy drinks, two cases of Sam Adams . . . and to my surprise, Ruffles, sour cream, and Lipton onion dip mix.
Damn, he’s literally the reason they invented self-checkout. This secondhand embarrassment is killing me. I stared hard at the floor. His white-and-black Adidas were pretty ordinary. Probably a size ten. Olive-green cargo shorts, not too much of a surprise. I snuck a quick glance upward to see what he looked like, but immediately averted my eyes down to the floor again, remembering that this was a college town, and the last thing I needed was to know who exactly this was who needed all the gastro relief, and I definitely didn’t want to appear to be interested in him by accidentally staring too long. This was not the time to be labeled the Carlthorpe Campus Cougar™.
As he chatted with the cashier, curiosity got the best of me, and I peeked once more, but he had dipped his chin so low I couldn’t get a good look. His frayed red baseball cap embroidered with a large “C” for Carlthorpe on the front hid most of his face: it was a nondescript hat, the color so washed out it was arguably more pink than crimson. All that was visible from beneath his vintage cap was his mesmerizing, gorgeous smile.
Snap out of the hypnotic trance, Lily. Bad cougar. Bad.
I methodically unloaded my items, separating the groceries into refrigerated and dry goods, continuing to avoid eye contact with this Sam Adams and Ruffles party maniac with gastrointestinal distress.
My entire body froze when I looked down at my basket. The four condom boxes were all that were left. Red Hat Guy was almost done, with only some beer left to scan, and Mia hadn’t texted back why exactly she needed all the condoms, although I had my guesses. I quickly unloaded them and grabbed an Us Weekly with Harry Styles on the cover to blanket my various prophylactics.
I heard him chuckle and then say, “Good times ahead, eh?” My breath hitched with a quick inhale as I realized he wasn’t just laughing at the condoms: he was reacting to my glass vodka bottle that had tipped over when the conveyor belt reengaged. It rolled all the way up to his beer cases, and then barreled back when the belt stopped moving, crashing into the boxes of condoms like a bowling ball splitting pins down the middle of the lane.