Tug-at-your-heartstrings new adult first love story.
What starts as a bet to avoid cleanup duties at her minimum wage cashier job, wins Amelie D'Amico more than she's ever hoped for.
When Ben, a cute customer who always checkouts at her register, fi...
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Tears keep coming at the most inopportune moments all through the day, both at school and at the store, and no amount of cold water on my face hides the ravaging effects of crying for twenty-four hours straight. The dull ache throbs in the back of my head and makes understanding anything during the classes impossible.
At work it gets worse. Surrounded by shoppers chatting on their phones, the wheels on the carts squealing, and freezer doors banging, I'd give anything for one of those quiet office jobs.
Mary, at the register to the left, and Chris, to the right, shout to each other over my head, trying to figure out the number for an obscure mustard lettuce bunch. I zone out as I ring up and bag the items for the next customer in line. A migraine is coming on.
"Hrrrrr, matching ... here, please." The unintelligible buzz of the announcement assaults my oversensitive brain.
Spalt.
Dammit. The carton of eggs I was about to scan falls by my feet. The lid flies open. Every single one in the dozen is cracked and oozing but at least they remain inside. I toss them and wipe the snotty goo off the mat I'm standing on. It doesn't much differ from what my pillow looked last night.
My success rate at keeping it together diminishes as my shift wears on, and the next item to end up on the floor is a bottle of red wine that's worth three hours of my pay. It shatters into a million tiny sharp pieces, covering my shoes and the area around the register in pungent dark liquid. Each shard of the broken glass threatens to cut my fingers as I pick them up. The grey-brown mop I swish around absorbs the wine and stains burgundy.
I do everything in my power to avoid more cleanups. The puny amount of mental energy I have left goes toward the items in my hands. I welcome the muffling effect this concentration has on my sadness. At least it prevents me from tearing up in front of everyone in the store.
"You look like you've been crying. What's going on?" I glance up at the shopper on the other side of the register and see Ben—his eyebrows knit together in what I interpret as concern.
My go-to response to the few who had cared to ask was, "Allergies, I'll be OK." But I hear myself saying: "Xavier, my ass ... idiot of a boyf ... ex-boyfriend broke up with me last night over the mushroom risotto."
Ben stares into space, and I can imagine the gears turning in his head. Then he focuses on me and, as if that is the most crucial part of my answer, asks, "How did the risotto turn out?"
That's it? No "Oh no, what happened?", or "Sorry to hear that", or "Yikes, that sucks" I'd expect from about anyone. Nope. He asks about the freaking risotto.
I raise my swollen eyes to him. "It was delicious, but I didn't get to eat much; it's in my fridge." The next comment will surely be about my breakup.
"Risotto is best eaten right away, but if you use a pan and low heat, not a microwave, it reheats well. It'll take a bit longer that way, but the cream won't separate, and you will have a much better consistency. I can bring you a rice pilaf recipe next week. You can reheat it and even freeze it."
Instead of consoling, Ben flashes me a boyish grin I've never seen on him before. His baseball cap and hoodie conceal the top of his face, but his lips have always been on display. I've inspected them many times, and I wouldn't have forgotten what a smile looks like on them.
Why would he smile at me now? I push away my first instinct to overanalyze the meaning behind his behavior. My eyes, my chest, and head hurt, and I can't do this happy chatter with him. I give up on politeness and, without answering, finish bagging his purchases, process the payment, and put the receipt into his bag.
