“I can’t. Grandma’s sick. I’m getting her something to eat.”
At once, her hard stare falls away and her brow knits in concern. “What’s wrong with Mrs. Vivian?”
I shake my head. “Not sure. She thinks it’s shingles.”
Her eyes widen before she presses her lips together in sympathy. “I’ve heard that’s really painful.”
I just nod.
Evie glances around the shop. “What does she need? What would help?”
“She just wants boudin and ginger ale,” I say with a shrug.
And with that, the tension of a moment before disappears, and Evie cracks a smile. “Well, we should get her some.”
Before I can argue, Evie darts off toward the drinks cooler.
“Hey pal, we’re about to pack up for the night,” the deli server says, approaching me again. “You want anything?”
I order the boudin and two dinner rolls. Then I scan the case. Food is the last thing on my mind right now. Maybe I’ll just skip dinner tonight. Or make a sandwich later when my insides aren’t tangled in knots of regret.
While the clerk packs up my order, Evie reemerges at my side. She’s carrying a plastic shopping basket bearing a six-pack of ginger ale, a box of townhouse crackers, and a small jar of orange marmalade. I frown, wondering if the last two items are for her or Grandma, but whatever.
“I’ll have a round of the camembert,” she tells the clerk when he hands me the to-go box.
I should just grab the soda from her, head to the checkout, and leave, but I can’t.
I’ll walk away when we get outside,I tell myself.
The clerk wraps up her cheese as we wait in silence. When he goes to hand this to her, I step in front of Evie and claim it.
“Hey,” she scolds, making a grab for her cheese, but I lift it out of her reach and move toward the checkout.
“Give that back,” she says, fast on my heels.
I reach the counter, set down the groceries, and then pluck the items from her basket.
“What are you doing?” she asks. The woman at the counter starts ringing up everything, and Evie reaches for the small purse that hangs from her shoulder.
“Let me,” I say. It’s not a plea. It’s a command. She must hear the strangled edge in my voice as clearly as I do because she doesn’t argue. If buying my own food is an achievement, providing hers is a sacrament. There’s nothing better I could do with my paycheck than feed her.
The pleasure this gives me goes bone deep, and I feel lighter, less burdened when I hand over the cash.
“Put those in a separate bag,” I tell the woman, indicating the crackers, jam, and cheese. As she bags the items, I glance down and see a small frown on Evie’s brow, and I wonder why it’s there, but I know better than to ask.
I take the receipt and the bags and then hold the door open for Evie. We walk side by side to the corner where I should go left to Saint Joseph Street and she right to Saint Patrick Street. I hand her the plastic bag holding her items.
“Here you go.”
She looks up at me, the frown etched deeper. “Those aren’t forme,”she says. “They’re forus.”
“Evie—”
“Please,” she says, pinning me with the life-giving green of her eyes. Her voice is low, strained. “Please just let me be near you.”
Thank God I’m filthy. Thank God I’m covered in sweat and grease and brake fluid. Because if I were clean enough to touch her, my tongue would be in her mouth right now. My hands in her hair. Her breasts crushed against my chest.
But I am not clean. Hell, I will never be that clean. So I stand stockstill and feel her words slice me open. I have the will to keep from kissing her within an inch of her life. But any power I have to turn her away has vanished.