The Opposite of Falling Apart

CHAPTER 4 - BRENNAN

"Can I get a pound of the honey roasted turkey, sliced on a two?" Two. Deli speak for sandwich slices.

Brennan flashed a smile at the customer on the other side of the counter. "Sure!" she said, feigning cheerfulness. Her feet were hurting again. She hadn't sat down since she'd gotten to work. Keep busy, her brain demanded. Distraction is key.

She glanced at the clock as she opened the deli case and grabbed the turkey in question, slapping it down on the slicer and laying a piece of tissue paper down for the meat. She sliced back and forth, the rhythmic hum of the slicer creating background noise.

Finished, she picked up the piece of paper with the turkey and weighed it. One pound on the dot. Brennan always felt lucky if she got the exact measurement she'd been aiming for. She put the turkey in a plastic bag, sealed it, and slapped on a sticker with the price. Thanks for shopping! it said. Then Brennan said the same, out loud. She handed the bag to the customer, who smiled, thanked her, and went on about their shopping business.

Brennan sighed, turning and leaning back against the deli case. She eyed the clock once more. One minute until four, and then she'd go on break. She wasn't used to working in the evening; she normally worked in the morning and afternoon. She'd picked up a shift for a co-worker who was having back pain, apparently so badly that he couldn't even walk. Brennan doubted the validity of this excuse, however, since she'd seen said co-worker out at the movies with his girlfriend on one of the days he was supposedly in so much pain that even sitting up was an effort. He had seemed to be sitting up just fine. Snogging his girlfriend just fine.

Kissing, Brennan reminded herself. This isn't Harry Potter. The big hand on the clock finally hit the twelve and it was four o'clock. Brennan took off the protective hairnet that made her look like an extra on the set of a medical drama.

Leaving the deli and entering the world of grocery that existed on the other side of her counter always seemed like a breath of fresh air. Even her feet were glad to be able to be walking rather than just standing there, holding her body weight in one place for so long. They hurt a little less.

She bought a bottled water and a package of peanut butter cups, and headed to the break room.

There were a few other people there, but they mostly minded their own business, other than occasionally making a passing comment about the news that was playing on the TV mounted on the wall. They didn't even acknowledge Brennan, other than to look up when she walked in. Brennan was totally fine with that. She didn't really know any of them. Maybe she just hadn't been there long enough to bond.

She claimed the break-room couch, thankful that, for once, there was no one else sitting there. If there had been, she would have had to sit at the tables, because You can't sit on the couch if someone else is THERE. What would they think if you just sat down at the other end without saying anything? And asking was out of the question, because Brennan's mouth had a bad habit of drying up like a desert whenever she opened her mouth to ask people questions.

She opened her water and took a sip.

She thought about the boy who had hit her car earlier. He had looked to be about her age; maybe he was even getting ready to be a college freshman, just like her. He was somewhat skinny but not unattractively so, she defended him in her mind, embarrassed. Ha-ha, her brain seemed to laugh at her. What are you embarrassed about?

He had nice hair. It looked soft, and kind of like he'd just gotten out of bed that way. A crazy part of her wondered if it was as soft as it looked. She'd watched him for a while, until he had noticed her look- ing, and then she'd turned away, blushing (always blushing). Brennan had an aversion to eye contact. No matter how hard she tried, she could never tell if she was holding it for too long, which resulted in a lot of glancing around and awkward attempts to meet the other person's gaze. She'd stared at a lot of ears and feet in the process of avoiding eyes.

She thought about the twenty-dollar bill in her pocket. From him, whomever he was. He never had told her his name after she let him off the hook with the insurance thing.

Brennan sighed and shoved her candy into her pocket. You should wait to eat until you get home, her brain muttered. What if you feel sick again? Eating will make it worse.

She thought about the boy again, because he distracted her from herself. He had seemed kind of odd, she had noticed. He looked dreadfully uncomfortable, for one thing. Maybe he felt sick or something. Whatever the case, he also walked kind of weird. Not quite a limp, but not quite a normal gait either. Sprained ankle? Pulled muscle? And he seemed glued to the side of the silver minivan he was driving. Why do I care? she asked herself. Because you don't know anything about him. Because he's a mystery, and you spend all your spare time making mysteries out of people. Is it creepy? Maybe it's creepy. It's creepy, right?

She did—make mysteries out of people. She watched customers over the deli counter, going about their shopping, and made up stories in her head about what each one was there for, and what they would do after they left the grocery store. Sometimes they were elaborate (he's an undercover cop and one of the workers here is a suspect in a murder) and others were simpler (it's her anniversary today and she's picking up frozen pizzas for the kids so the two of them can go out to eat at a fancy restaurant and have some alone time).

She glanced up at the clock. Thirty minutes had already passed. Break over.

She sighed (You sigh too much. Her brain. Again.) and tossed her empty water bottle in the recycling.

Four hours down, four to go.

Plenty of time for something to go wrong. Do you feel like your pulse is fast? Brennan self-consciously brought her fingers to her neck, as if she was just brushing her hair out of the way. She watched the clock for thirty seconds and then multiplied by two. Seventy. Two beats more than her normal.

You're fine, Brennan told herself. Fine.