by Finn, Emilia
Sunday morning means groceries. It means following my shopping list exactly, buying six dozen eggs, six cartons of almond milk, enough chicken thighs to kill a… well, a million chickens, and all of the fresh produce old man Jonah can get his hands on.
It means buying one single box of cookies, and pausing in the cookie aisle for longer than necessary because I desperately want five. I have to drag myself away before I sweep the whole shelf into my cart and run away to live my life as a fat girl.
My body wants to be chubby. Like it’s in my DNA or something; eat all of the cookies, get perfectly plump, roll my way down the freeway doling out speeding tickets. The universe wants me to be round, so I fight against nature every single day by rationing my sugar and choking down healthy foods. I don’t hate the gym, but I definitely don’t go in the mornings; I need time to work up to that.
Moving into the next aisle and studying cereals, I slow at what I used to call rainbow Cheerios – they were fruit loops, and no one ever corrected me – but I pass those and stop in front of the healthier options. This is a war I fight every single day; make good choices, buy low fat, low carb, low fun, then work out.
I don’t enjoy the process, but – I run a hand over my flat stomach and smile – I sure as hell enjoy the results. I take what I need from the shelf and peek one last time at the ‘rainbow Cheerios,’ then I move along to the fridge section and begin selecting the cuts that’ll get me through until next Sunday. Night shift week means planning and cooking my meals in advance. This is both a blessing and a curse; it makes me bitter, because more often than not, my colleagues buy takeout while on shift, smash it down, and still manage to look as good as they do.
I will always be bitter that men have testosterone pumping through their blood to make staying lean easier.
But it also means I don’t have to think about what to make. I cook something in bulk on Sunday, divide it into six containers, and I’m set for the week. But on my week of day shifts, I get fresher, yummier, possibly healthier. My home smells each night the way it smells on a Sunday. I get to change my mind if I feel like eating something else. And after I eat, I get to sit down with my coveted cookies and try to ration them across the whole week.
They never last beyond Tuesday, which, in my mind, is argument enough to buy more sleeves to see me through, but I control my urges, and if I run out on Tuesday, I miss out until the following week.
I don’t remember ever eating cookies on a Wednesday.
“You should try the ground turkey.” A deep voice over my left shoulder makes me jump and nearly drop the tray of ground beef I’m holding over the fridges. The man from the gym, Theodore Griffin, stands just a foot and a half away, so close he could lean in and touch me if he wanted.
When our eyes meet and his stare into mine and insist I know them, he flashes a wide grin and reaches around me to snag a tray of turkey. “It’s cheaper, tastier, and better for you.”
“Uh…”
“You can make anything you were already gonna make – spaghetti and meatballs, burgers, whatever was on the menu – but use turkey instead. You’ll thank me.”
I close my eyes for a moment to reorient myself. I am an officer of the law, I come from a world of danger and bad people, I work out every single day – I don’t say “uh” like a total idiot just because a man stops by in the freezer section of the grocery store.
“No thanks.” I accept the tray, but only so I can toss it back into the fridge. “I don’t like turkey.”
“Wait.” He grabs my shoulder when I try to continue on. “Seriously, it’s good for your heart, and it’s cheaper than the trays of chicken. Aren’t you a cop? Public server and all; you should be living within your means.”
I narrow my eyes, give him my full attention and, reaching into my cart, snag a can of chickpeas. Then a can of kidney beans. “These have more protein than beef or turkey, they’re the best my heart could ask for, and they’re only seventy-nine cents a can. I live within my means, and I’ve got this under control, but thanks.” I toss the cans back in and turn away in an attempt to escape the man whose eyes I can’t stop thinking about, but he keeps up. He’s fast, and reminds me of an eager puppy.
“Slow down, officer. I just wanted to say hey.”
“How do you know I’m police?”
He shrugs, and when I drop a loaf of bread into my cart, he takes it out and replaces it with the plain brand version. When my fiery gaze meets his, he grins. “Less preservatives, and it’s cheaper. Half the price of the other.”
“It also turns into cardboard within two days. I like the other one. It’s soft.”
“It’s soft because of the chemicals they put in during production. They make for soft bread, but wreak havoc on your body. Try this other brand, keep it in your freezer. It’ll last longer and stay soft. And I know you’re a cop, because I asked around.”
I narrow my eyes. “You’re asking around about me?” I stop by the toilet paper section and firm my lips. “Do we know each other?”
He flashes a playful grin. “Sure feels like it, huh? You’re the girl who can’t bench press, and I’m the guy who saved you from certain death.”
“I can bench more than you ever could.” My words come out on a growl, and they’re absolutely not true. I can bench press more than many women, but there’s no way in hell I can lift more than him. His shoulders are twice as broad as mine, his chest is, too. His arms are muscular, even beneath the coat he wears, and his thighs are thick and fill out his blue jeans. “I didn’t need your help at the gym.”
Entirely too happy with himself, he only shrugs and continues walking beside me while I shop. “It was my pleasure to help. No way could I just stand by and wait to see what would happen. Took me two seconds on my way out the door; not a big deal.”
It was a big deal to me. I snatch up a twelve-pack of toilet paper and lift a brow when I know I’m not grabbing the cheapest brand. “The other kind is scratchy. Don’t push your luck.”
He chuckles and lifts his hands in surrender. “A man knows not to fuck with bathroom essentials. You off work today?”
“We don’t know each other!” I toss my toilet paper in my cart and turn away. “We don’t know each other, but you speak like we’re restarting an old conversation. Go away, seriously.” I shoo him with a wave of my hand. “Thanks for the assist at the gym, thanks for fucking with my bread choice, but you have to go away.”
“I’m Theodore Griffin.” He extends a hand and watches me through what may be insecure eyes. “I’m new to town, and you were the first person I kinda said hey to. In my world, that makes us buddies.”
“You’re Theo Griffin, multi-katrillionaire business mogul who traded in twelve million dollars of tech shares this weekend? That Theo Griffin?”
His lips twitch with playfulness. “Katrillionaire isn’t a real word. And don’t let the numbers fool you – you say twelve million like I have stacks of cash in my pockets. In reality, they’re just numbers on a screen. I sold shares because the people who were selling them are in collusion with another government entity, and I didn’t like what they stood for.”
“First of all, to have those numbers on a screen,” I continue walking, “you must have stacks of cash laying around somewhere. And two, collusion with who? And should you make a police report?”
He scoffs so loud it makes me jump. “I don’t report things to the police. They don’t do their job anyway, and I don’t fancy sitting in a shitty building for six hours while the cops tug each other’s dicks and pretend they’re helping.”
“I’m the police!” I stop at the end of the aisle and meet his eyes. “You’re insulting my life’s work.”
“And to suggest I’d report such a thing is insulting my intelligence. I have no proof of their wrongdoings.” I narrow my eyes when his sparkle with fun. “I just know what I know in my gut, and I didn’t want to be associated anymore, so I sold up and walked away.”
“And made a tidy nine million
in profit.”
His grin is slow and dangerous. “You know an awful lot about me for someone who is pretending to be cool.”
“You’re the one who told me your name. Your company was on the news all week about those shares. I’d say everyone knows this stuff about you. You live a public life, therefore the public will know about your life.”
What was a smile lowers into something else. Something more intense as he leans into my space. “But that’s just it; I don’t live a public life. My company is not publicly listed, I’ve never done an interview. I stay out of the tabloids, so much so that you know my name but not my face. You have no clue of my true net worth or my sexual orientation. People think they know me, and they think they’re entitled to know more. But I don’t serve the public, Ms. Tate. I don’t do shit unless it serves me.”
My back is pressed against the shelves, my chest lifting and falling with heavy breaths as though I’m working out. “I never told you my name.”
“I asked around. You’re beautiful, and when you were killing yourself on a bench press, you were laughing. A mind puzzle is infinitely more appealing to me than looks. Though I can’t say I don’t like what I see.” He leans in close enough that if he were any other man, if these were any other circumstances, I’d have already torn the balls from his body and folded him to the ground.
I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me. I don’t know why I choke around him.
“You’re kinda short though, ya know that? Ever wear heels?”
“I’m not short. I’m literally the average height for women in this country.”
“You make my neck sore when we look at each other. That means you’re too short. Put on a pair of heels, and we could move right along into the next portion of this.”
“The next…” I choke. A literal choking sound escapes my throat at his audacity. “What?”
“We should get dinner.”
My brain short-circuits when he licks his lips mere inches from my face. His warm breath tickles my skin, minty and refreshing compared to what I’m certain is stale coffee coming from me.
“I’d really, really like to get dinner with you sometime, Libby.”
“How’d…” My eyes snap until they’re narrowed slits. “How’d you know to call me Libby?”
“That’s your name,” he bats back with barely a stumble.
“No, my name is Elizabeth. If you looked me up, you’d have read Elizabeth.”
He waves me off with an air of… fake. “Libby is just a shortened version of that. Why is this such a big deal?”
“Because Beth is also an option. Or Ellie. Or Lizzie. Eliza. Ella. Betty. There are a billion other options, but you went with Libby. How did you know to call me Libby?”
“Because… I don’t know. I just did.” I’ve cracked his smooth cover and now feel the heat coming from his glare. “You’re a fuckin’ cop, huh? Through and through.”
“Do cops bother you, Griffin?” I lean toward him and reclaim my power. “Only guilty men dislike the law. What did you do wrong?”
“Not only guilty men,” he spits back. “Sometimes men who’ve been hurt by the law hold a grudge. Men who wanted to go to the police for help, but the police were the enemy. Not every cop follows the law, Elizabeth.”
I slam my head back against the shelf as though he hit me. Heat burns my eyes despite the fact he doesn’t truly know me. He’s not talking about me or my family, because he doesn’t know us. But the fact he says those words still cuts me.
“I’m sorry you needed help and couldn’t find it.”
A moment of truth settles between us. From the man who wants to push my buttons, and me trying to act tough, to both of us simply feeling the truth pulse in the air. He was hurt by the police, and now he can’t trust us.
His Adam’s apple bobs as his eyes flicker between mine. I don’t know this man, but I feel the heat now just as I felt it when he stared into my eyes at the gym.
“Do you believe in prophecy?” I feel so dumb asking such a question. “Do you think dreams can predict the future?”
“Well…” His brows pull tight as he brings a hand up to straighten the hem of my shirt. “I’m not sure. I guess, in a way. I often dream about things for work. It’s where I get much of my inspiration.”
I give a gentle nod and swallow. “I feel like I know you. I dreamt about you before I met you, and now it feels like I recognize you in real life.”
He considers my words for a moment. “Was I the good guy in your dreams? Or the villain?”
“You were…” I swallow. “Watchful, I guess. I feel like I know your eyes, and you stare so much that it confuses me. I would remember if I’d ever met Theodore Griffin. I obviously haven’t, but my dreams are clashing with reality, and my reality is that you helped me in the weight room one time for thirty seconds, but I feel like there’s more.”
“It bothers you not having clarity?” he asks softly.
“I like to be in control of things,” I admit. “I hate surprises; they don’t bring me happiness, they bring me anxiety. So to dream of this blue-eyed man, then to meet him the very next day…” I blow out a heavy exhale and shake my head. “It’s fucking with me.”
The worry clears from his eyes, and a smile tugs his lips higher. “You got a potty mouth, huh? That’s kinda sexy.”
I roll my eyes and slip out from between his heavy body and the shelves. Here I am, going deep with a stranger in the store and telling him about my dreams, and all he can do is smile at my cussing. “Forget about it.”
“Yes.” He grabs my hand and swings me back around until our chests crash together. He gets a sore neck from looking down, and I get a sore neck from looking up. “Yes, I think dreams can be prophetic sometimes. I guess some call it déjà vu, some call it coincidence.”
“I don’t believe in coincidence. I feel like maybe we met in another lifetime,” I hedge. Why do your eyes mean something to me? “And saying that feels super dumb, because I’m not normally that… I don’t know, wishy-washy. I have a logical brain, I work on facts and science, not prophesies or dreams. My entire career is built around finding facts, finding physical proof to support those, and then presenting those facts. Dreams aren’t proof.”
“So maybe you’re allowed to be Elizabeth the cop while on shift. Elizabeth is the logical one, the one who demands control and no surprises. And when you’re not on shift, you can be the wishy-washy Libby, the girl that believes in prophecy and destiny. I can be Theo the businessman while working, and just Theo the guy who wants to buy you high heels when I’m not.”
“I’m not short!” I snatch my hand from his and turn away from his teasing laugh. “Google it, jerk. I’m literally average height. Why are you so obsessed with how tall I am? Not everyone had a growth spurt and shot up.”
“Evidently,” he chuckles. “Seems you forgot to hit your spurt. Too busy playing with dolls?”
I lift my brows. Are you fucking serious?
“Okay,” he continues to laugh. “So maybe you were riding bikes with the neighborhood boys. Right?” His eyes turn almost desperate, which brings a strange sense of foreboding to my heart. “Did you play with the boys from your neighborhood, Lib? The boys from your school?”
I shake my head. “I went to an all-girls private charter school. I stopped coming home for the weekends once I was in fourth grade or so.”
His eyes warm. “You stopped coming home?”
I nod. “I didn’t want to come home, and my family didn’t much want me anyway. I was an only child, but I had lots of… well,” I pause and think of those bitchy girls who always pounded on me. “I guess we could call them cousins, but I hated every single one of them, so I stayed at school and studied.”
His eyes flicker across my face. “And now?”
“Now what?”
“Do you go home to see your cousins? For the holidays and such.”
I shake my head. “My family is here now. My colleagues and friends, they’
re my family.”
Theo takes a step closer, and doesn’t stop until his hip rests against my side and his chest touches my arm. He slides a fingertip along my forearm, drawing my eyes down, and doesn’t stop until his fingertip rests on my collarbone and somehow, the tip of his nose almost touches mine. “I’d like to get dinner with you sometime. No pretense, no cops, no work. Just dinner.”
I shake my head and try to pull away. “I don’t date.”
“Ever?”
“Never. I don’t have time, I don’t have the inclination to sort through the losers, I don’t have the patience to sit through a shitty dinner that I’m probably not enjoying anyway. I count calories and macros, and there isn’t a single restaurant in a hundred-mile radius willing to give me the exact ingredient list for what they serve.”
“Not even the colonel?”
Shocked for a moment, speechless, what I thought was a serious conversation turns to a stolen smile. That smile turns to a laugh that makes my heart thud. “Especially not the colonel. All of those secret herbs and spices really screw with my diet.” I take a step back and firm my lips. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, Griffin. I don’t date.”
“But you dreamed of me.” He steps in and replaces that space I took. “That means something, right?”
“I dreamed of a person with blue eyes, and then I woke up almost sick to my stomach. It felt like someone was studying me while I slept, like someone was in my apartment. I’m the most vulnerable while I sleep, and I’m not sure if you’ve figured this out yet, but I don’t enjoy vulnerability. My subconscious might recognize you, but it wasn’t a good dream.” I pat his arm and turn away. “Good luck with your plans to conquer the stock market or whatever. Make good choices.”
I push my cart along the aisle and act as though I’m totally okay, but then I slip into the next row and flatten my back against the shelves. I’m not okay. I have no clue who that man is, but if there was ever such a thing as two halves of one person, if there was ever proof of something more, I feel it right now. There’s something inside of me, a magnet of sorts, and it’s trying to send me north.