The store is quiet except for the hum of a refrigerator unit and the occasional creak of floorboards as I move through the aisles. I gather what I need methodically.
I already picked up some essential food stuff at the market like eggs, bread, fruit, and coffee (the good kind). Some basics for the short-let cottage I’ve arranged on the south end of town yet still walking distance to the lake.
A decent knife for kitchen use, since the rental listing specified “fully equipped” in the same spirit that rental listings always use words like “cozy” and “charming.”
I’m meandering the aisles, enjoying the quiet when someone pops in.
“Hey!” says a cheerful voice. “Is Gabe around? He wasn’t in the hardware store next door, so I figured.”
The cashier looks up. “You tracked him down. Stockroom with Mack. Want me to grab him?”
“Nah, I’ll wait. Just picking up cat food.” There’s the sound of someone moving through the aisles with the confidence of a regular. She reappears with a variety of cat food stacked in her arms. “Oh my god, did you hear about Cora and Rex? I just ran into Mr. Calloway on their way to Rusty’s for dinner.”
I go very still.
“From The Snack Hut?” the cashier asks.
“Yes! They’re together. Like,togethertogether. Romantically.” The woman sounds delighted. Genuinely, enthusiastically delighted. “I mean, we all knew they were best friends, right?Everyone knew that. But apparently it’s official now and it’s the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.”
I’m holding a box of galvanized screws, and re-reading the information label as if I’m committing the size and weight load to memory.
“Wait, really?” The cashier sounds interested now. “I thought they were just business partners. BFFs.”
“Theyare. But also they’re dating. Have been for a few months, I guess? Cora’s this amazing sirena who now runs eco-tours, and Rex is this were-shark guy who’s, like, genuinely the nicest person you’ll ever meet. Huge guy, total sweetheart. I think they knew each other from like The Philippines or Hawai’i—one of the places where she’s lived. They’ve been officially working together for about a year—ever since Cora launched the eco-tours—and officially a couple for the last few months and apparently everyone saw it coming except them.”
The information lands in stages.
First: the words themselves, which I hear clearly.
Second: the meaning, which I understand immediately.
Third: the small stubborn point of light I’d been carrying somewhere below my sternum for the last two days of driving, which extinguishes so completely I can feel the exact shape of where it used to be.
“That’s adorable,” the cashier says.
“Right? And Cora deserves it. She works so hard. It’s nice to see her happy.”
I put the box of screws in my basket along with a few air freshener plug ins. These are the choices of a normal person. I am fine.
(I am not fine.)
I move through the rest of my shopping on autopilot. Grab a few more things I probably don’t need. The woman (named Maggie, based on how a vulpine greets her as he emerges from the stockroom and kisses her hello) is still chatting near the front.
I take my time. Let them finish their conversation. Let the vulpine walk out with Maggie as they chat about tonight’s bonifre.
When I finally bring my basket to the counter, the cashier gives me a friendly nod.
“Find everything okay?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
They ring up my items with efficient professionalism. I pay. My hands are steady as I count out the bills. They bag everything and wish me a good stay in Harmony Glen.
“Thanks,” I say.
Outside, the evening is settling in, the light going golden and long. I load my bags into the trunk and stand for a moment with my hand on the roof, just breathing.
She has Rex.