Grocery shopping was as hideous as Dante had expected it to be, but with Sid by his side, he worried about it less. He still wanted to murder anyone who came up behind them, but the desire to act on it faded with every moment he spent in Sid’s company.
“How many nuts do you need?” Dante eyed the three-kilo bag Sid had dumped in the basket Dante carried.
“Lots.” Sid added walnuts and pecans to the almonds he’d already claimed. “Stops me eating Mars bars when I’m stoned.”
“What’s wrong with Mars bars?”
“Given how often I’m stoned and peckish, loads. I’d have diabetes and no fucking teeth if I didn’t have an alternative hanging around.”
“Is that a general life theory? To make sure you always have the option to choose right?”
Sid shot Dante a sideways glance. “Works for me. Doesn’t mean I always get it right, but I don’t beat myself up if I make mistakes. No one’s perfect.”
Dante turned his gaze to the shelf of pasta beside him and reached blindly for the first shape he recognised—the twists that Luis had used to mix with tins of tuna and canned sweetcorn. He tucked it under his arm.
“Put it in the basket,” Sid said. “I’ll get it, seeing as you already lost your afternoon to trailing me around.”
There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.“You don’t need to buy me shit. I have money.”
“I know. But it’s forty pence, and I hate fucking queuing at checkouts, so... give me the cash if you’re that worried about it.”
Dante didn’t have any cash. He had a brand-new debit card for a bank account he’d had since he was fourteen and had reactivated when he’d got out.
Because you could.
Because your douchebag older brother didn’t fuck it up for you.
Sid rubbed Dante’s arm. “What are you thinking about?”
“You don’t want to know,” Dante murmured, tracking a young blood in a hood as he moved fast up the aisle, grabbed a six-pack of Monster, and disappeared.
“Asked, didn’t I?” Sid pried the pasta from under Dante’s arm, placed it in the basket, and took the basket from Dante. “Are you thinking about how you’re gonna cook that pasta?”
“No. I was thinking about how I locked my brother out of his bank account when he came out of prison by banging the girl who worked in the bank.”
Sid didn’t blink. Perhaps he was getting used to Dante dropping truth bombs on him at random intervals. “Stop punishing yourself.”
“You think this is punishing myself?” Dante stopped the slow ramble they’d embarked on around the supermarket. “Being here with you?” He shook his head. “Wow, son.”
Sid snorted. “You really do sound like a gangster when you talk like that. It’s kind of hot, but I hate it.”
“You should.”
“Because you’re a bastard. Yeah, yeah. Rinse and repeat.” Sid stomped towards the checkout. Dante followed. The line waslong, and the unease he’d carried all day amped up again, sticking his tongue to the roof of his mouth.
Sid set the basket on the floor and shoved it along with his foot. A heavy silence blanketed them, but not for long. Sid wasn’t good at letting things fester. He set his jaw and faced Dante down. “Do you have PTSD or something?”
“Why are you asking me that?”
“Because you zone out like you’re seeing something that isn’t there, and when you come back, it’s like you left a piece of yourself behind.”
Dante glanced around. In the busy supermarket, no one was paying them any attention, but he could still think of a million other places he’d rather have had this conversation.Lie. It’s not like he’ll ever find out. But the horse had left the stable, and the knowing sadness in Sid’s gaze was all Dante could see. “They said I had it a few years ago. I did counselling and stuff, and it got better.”
“And now it’s back?”
“Or it never really went away. It’s difficult to challenge things inside when every day is the same. Once you find the safest places to be, life is predictable.”
They reached the checkout lane. Sid stooped to retrieve the basket.