(Ford x Reader) Hickory Pines

CH. 8 Mist-chievious

"All you need to do is follow my lead," Stanford explains as he unbuckles his seatbelt. I frown slightly but nod. Follow his lead? It's grocery shopping, not a mission from the FBI. We walk through the parking lot and into the store. I take a deep breath; it smells like semi-fresh produce and microplastics. Stanford reaches into his pocket, and I glare at him.

"Are you kidding me?" I ask incredulously.

"Yes, I brought it," he replies, folding the list and stuffing it into his coat. I grumble as he grabs a shopping cart. "I thought we agreed—"

"It wasn't working, Y/N. Not once in my life have I struggled this much with groceries." I sigh and slump my shoulders. Despite my complaints, I don't have much choice. I'm living in his house and eating his groceries, so I comply for now. I follow him silently, dragging my feet along the linoleum like a frustrated toddler.

In the soup aisle, I tap my foot impatiently while Stanford reads over a label. "Isn't this the same list you've had for years? Why are you reading labels?"

With a glance my way, he reluctantly explains, "I want to ensure the recipe hasn't changed." He sets it back on the shelf. I groan audibly; that's soup can number three he's rejected. He picks up the can next to it. I pluck a random one from the shelf. "Just pick one! I'm begging you!" I lean over the cart, trying to reach.

Stanford uses his foot to push the cart—and me—away. "I don't know how much longer I can stare at Campbell's before my brain turns to soup!"

He snatches the can from my hands and puts it back, much to my despair. If there's a bottomless pit, I'd gladly take a dip in it instead of this.

Removing myself from the cart, which I think may have given me a bruise, I lean against the shelf behind us. A shadow whirs past the corner of my eye. I look to find nothing there. Am I so bored that I'm hallucinating? Who knew a month with a stranger could be so exhausting? But what do I know? He's obviously Mr. Smart Guy.

After what feels like an eternity of sorting through cans, Stanford finally makes a choice. He slips it into the cart, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Then we head to the noodle aisle. It seems soup isn't his only label-reading obsession.

This is taking forever! I never thought grocery shopping could be such an all-day affair. Every time I try to speed things along, he shuts it down immediately. The incessant hum of fluorescent lights is driving me to insanity. I just want to leave. Oh, please let us go home.

This whole situation feels like I'm writing a two-thousand-word chapter about grocery shopping. What kind of idiot would do that?

Finally, we reach the checkout. I think I deserve some sort of reward for my suffering. My hand snakes toward a candy bar on the counter, but just as I'm about to grab it, my hand gets slapped away. I flinch and glare at Stanford.

"I'm not buying that," he says through grit teeth.

By this point, I'm ready to snap. "Oh, come on!" I hiss. "I can pay for it, Stanford!"

"No! You need to save your money!"

"Oh, please! It's one candy bar. I'm not going bankrupt!"

"If you make that purchase often, it adds up!"

"Who said I was going to do this every time?!"

"Clearly, you have no restraint and rush through everything! You won't let me read a single thing without whining my ears off!"

"I do not! I just have the common sense to know that reading every minuscule detail on a label of a brand nobody cares about isn't important!"

As we continue to bicker, I notice the cashier easing away slowly, clearly afraid of the escalating tension.