JULY 6 Dear Mr. Knightley,
The evening began with a text.
Lobby 6pm?
Usually I get an indication of his plans, so I replied: ???? He sent a one word reply.
Groceries.
I smiled. Grocery shopping with Josh was a systematic and uninteresting affair. He grabbed the same fifteen items on every trip and got out fast. No imagination. Alex? This might be fun. Alex does so much without thinking—that didn’t come out right. I mean, everything is woven into a creative process; nothing is taken for granted or thrown away.
When I reached the lobby I found him slouched on a bench, texting. His brow was completely furrowed. I hadn’t noticed so many lines before.
“Give me one sec.”
I sat next to him—on his right.
“Replying to slap-down from my publisher. She’s nervous I’m not working.”
I had wondered the same thing myself. “Are you?”
He looked straight at me. And I can’t attribute that focus completely to the eye injury—Alex gets that intense.
“You have no idea, Sam. Writing is coming more fluidly now than it has in years. It’s exciting and unnerving and every moment I worry it will end . . .” He paused and smiled, more to himself and some thought dancing in his head than to me. “Yes, I’m working.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Not yet.” He tapped his phone several times before pocketing it, then reached for my arm. “I want to and I will, but not yet. Talking through stuff before I get it into the manuscript depletes its tension and magic. I have to keep it compressed or it flops.”
“I get that.” And I do. So much inside us is more powerful if drawn out at the right time and in the right way—like my January feature and the articles I’m writing now.
“Thanks for coming with me. Now I have an excuse to drive north to the grocery in Winnetka. It’s the only one I know around here, and grocery stores can be scary places.”
“They can?”
“I get Fresh Direct in New York. Haven’t been in a grocery store in years.”
“You’ve been here three weeks.”
“My point exactly.”
We drove north talking about nothing in particular. I grew quiet because I know driving makes Alex nervous.
“You’re not talking.”
“You’re concentrating.”
“I’m not going to kill you, Sam. I’m not blind.”
“I don’t think that. I was being considerate.”
He threw me a scowl.
“You want me to talk? Fine. How was your day?”
“That’s better.” He smiled. “Cole was good today. Got in a bit of a fight with a Chicago detective, but they’ll get through it. I think he likes her.”
“He needs a girlfriend.”
“Does he?” His tone lifted suggestively.
Are we talking about Cole?
“Yes. Why hasn’t he had one? Four books and no girl. It’s odd. A relationship would help your market grow.”
“My market’s growing just fine.” He glanced over at me and smiled. I thought he was going to hide in the banter and not answer my question, but he looked back at the road and started talking.
“Cole doesn’t see women clearly. He doesn’t understand what they want from him, and he fears he’ll disappoint. Think about what you already know. He disappointed his dad and never got to make it right before his dad was killed. His mom blames him for that. His one brother holds it over his head, and every woman has betrayed him one way or another. I don’t know that he can let a woman in. It’s a risk.”
“Probably one worth taking—with the right girl.”
“You think?”
I thought about Josh, but there was no way this conversation was turning to my relationships. “In theory, yes. In experience, I don’t know.”
We pulled into the grocery store and that ended it. We both needed a change of subject. But if I’d known what was coming next, I would’ve launched into Josh. He might have been safer . . .
Everyone knows you begin shopping on the outside aisles of a grocery store and work your way across. Produce first.
Dairy last—or however the particular circle works. Not Alex. Straight to the center and then some pinball push outward.
We started in cookies. I never go down that aisle—not enough disposable income. And I don’t eat many sweets. Yet here we stood, surveying a thousand packages of cookies. He grabbed some Fig Newtons and I stood stymied by the Oreos. I almost cried. I turned quickly to walk on, but Alex noticed.
“You want to explain?” He pointed to the Oreos. “Pretty strong reaction to creamy vanilla goodness inside two crispy chocolate wafers.”
“Shut up.” I smiled. I wanted to share, because on some level I believe Alex is safe—slightly safe. I don’t feel nervous with him as I did with Josh, like one butterfly was always flying loose.
I ventured out and described Mrs. Chapman, my first foster mom. “My . . . aunt used to give me three Oreos each day after school. It was first grade. I sat in her lap and she read to me while we ate. Every single day.” I fingered one of the packages. “I loved her, I think. I haven’t thought about that in a long time.”
“Where is she now?”
“She moved away the next summer.” I looked at him and realized it sounded odd, never seeing or speaking to an aunt again. “And now she’s gone . . .” I let it linger, hoping the natural conclusion would end the questions.
Alex reached for the package and popped it open.
“What are you doing?”
He pulled one out. “Eat.”
“Alex, no. You have to buy that.”
“Clearly. Put it in your mouth.”
I obeyed and put the whole cookie in my mouth, but I couldn’t bite it. There was something sacred about that memory—all wrapped up in an Oreo.
“Chew.” He stepped toward me.
I bit down once.
“I’m going to find salsa. Catch up when you finish.” He dropped the package in his cart and walked away.
I stood there slowly crunching on that silly cookie that almost had me bawling. I concentrate so much on the pain that I suspect I miss the good: the Chapmans, a few saintly social workers, foster parents who cared, the library, Father John, Hannah, Kyle, Ashley, the Muirs, Alex . . . the list goes on. There have been people and events, even small ones that slip past my memory like a shadow, that have been good and whole and right in my life. How can I focus on those? Writing that article with Kyle started the process, and standing in that aisle tonight, eating a cookie, forced another step.
I grabbed a second package, tore it open, and ate two more. Three Oreos. When I caught up with Alex and dropped the package into his cart, he raised an eyebrow but said nothing. I like that about him. Sometimes words shouldn’t be spoken.
We finished up with the oddest mix of stuff in his cart. Nothing that one could make for dinner, but seriously good snack food. Alex more closely resembles Cole Barker than I thought.
We then went to a dive called Meier’s Tavern for burgers and tater tots, which made me laugh because we’d just spent over an hour at a grocery store. After that—the Muirs’ house. I hopped out, thanked him, and headed for the door.
“Wait a sec.” Alex got out and rummaged through the grocery bags. He handed me one package of Oreos.
“You’re not the only one who needs Oreos, Sam.”
There was nothing to say. I reached up on my toes and kissed him on the cheek. I think I surprised him, Mr. Knightley, but I didn’t wait to see his reaction. I simply waved and headed to the house.
Now I feel sick. There’s a reason I don’t eat sweets. No willpower. I watched some Downton Abbey episodes and ate the entire package—loving every bite.
Sleep well, Mr. Knightley . . .
Sam