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...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"Jeez, what happened to your Casanova? Did someone run him over?" says Chris.
My attention is devoted to counting the bills against the register's total, in hopes no one shows up with cash in the next thirty minutes. Watching the door for Ben doesn't usually start till much later. He's back? I glance up and he's there. He's back.
Chris is right because something is wrong. If I looked terrible after my crying marathon, Ben looks way worse. The blue and black bruising blooms around his nose and eyes. His hands are swollen and the skin on them is broken. The left one's hanging in a sling. Trying to lean on the cart, one leg in a brace, he limps as he pushes it.
In contrast to his mangled body, his clothes are the nicest I've ever seen on him. He wears fitted blue jeans and a long-sleeved gray t-shirt. His baseball cap and the canvas bag in his cart are the only familiar things about him.
"Can you hold down the fort without me?"
"Go, I'm OK, there's no line." Chris dismisses me.
"Thanks." I add a tepid smile and turn off the light on my register.
I'm not sure why I'm doing this. History has shown my general uselessness. I'm a failure in more things than I care to admit: not a social butterfly like my Nonna used to be, have no patience for or interest in other people's drama. I failed to notice my father's condition until it was too late and can barely take care of myself.
The urge to reach out to someone, a stranger, to offer help is not like me. I have no obligation to worry about Ben, no reason to break my rules of keeping a distance from people who aren't useful to me. Yet, I'm walking toward him, hiding the worry churning inside me. Ben stops when he sees me heading his way. He waits for me to come close, then digs into the back pocket of his jeans, and extends a crumpled piece of paper with his banged-up arm.
"Thank you." I glance at the rice pilaf recipe. An image of Nonna's index cards crammed full of words scattered around the apartment above her restaurant comes to mind. Ben's crisp and orderly handwriting is the polar opposite of her curly letters and erratic lines slanted at weird angles. Throughout my childhood, I saw her hastily scribbling a great new idea for a dish. I witnessed her convert the chicken-scratch from the page into delicacies I was eager to taste.
No matter how different the presentation, both Nonna's and Ben's handwritten recipes shine with care. Ben's neat step-by-step guide makes my heart melt. A tingle of a long-forgotten feeling in my chest tugs the corners of my lips up. He remembered. I scan the paper and the recipe comes alive with Ben's observations on what to watch out for, and even an explanation of what oven temperature yields which result. It pries away a length of barbed wire that's been wrapped around my heart for a while.
"I couldn't make it last week, but I didn't forget about the rice pilaf."
My smile grows. "No, you didn't. When you didn't show, I wasn't sure what hurt more: my boyfriend breaking up with me or you skipping on your promise of a rice pilaf recipe."
I keep smiling as I say it, glad my absent sense of humor showed up again. What I want to do is ask what the heck has happened to him, but I do the thing I do best and hide behind words.
"I'm sorry. I couldn't come." He touches the back of his head that must've been hurt.
"I noticed." And maybe wondered. Even though my personal flavor of misery occupied the largest part of my brain, a small corner was uncomfortable that Ben stopped showing up.
"The doctor wanted to keep me for observation in case I had a concussion, so I didn't get released until Wednesday." He tugs on the brim of his cap. "How can I make it up to you?"
"I'm kidding. I wasn't mad at you." He didn't really think I was mad, did he? "But I did wonder if you shopped on another day or went to a different store."
"No." He looks at me as if I've accused him of a horrible crime. "I skipped grocery shopping. Mom brought some things over, but I have been ordering takeout."
"The way you look, you should've stuck it out with takeout. Or a grocery delivery service. They'll bring the bags to your door, you know. Can you even cook in this state?"
"I've adjusted some of the recipe selections for the week to accommodate my limited abilities."
"OK, then." I decide to be bold. I came over: I might as well finish what I started. "While I won't be able to help you with cooking, I can certainly help you with getting your groceries. Let me know what you need, and I'll be your arms and legs. I'm at your service." I curtsey and spread my imaginary skirt wide.
Ben nods in what I take as agreement, pulls out his phone, and lists the items he needs. I know the story like the back of my hand and grabbing the items for him is more fun than being bored at the register. In no time, I'm ringing Ben up and Chris locks the entrance door. Ben's the last customer again. He pays, I load his bags into the cart, and he shuffles toward the parking lot.
