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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My priority for this week is to spend every spare minute at the library. The microfilm I requested from the Library of Congress arrived last week, and I spent yesterday looking through and categorizing what I got. I have to review as many manuscripts on them as possible before they go back. Deciphering a 13th-century lectionary written in a mixture of Old French and Latin is going to be a beast but it's one of the key sources for my thesis. The last batch of summer term finals I'll be grading for professor Hopkins will come in tomorrow, and I'm itching to make whatever pie recipe Ben brings me today. I hope it's apple pie—they are my favorite ones.
He's back to wearing sweats and a hoodie and to coming in five minutes before it's time to close the door. All his bruising has disappeared with no trace of damage left on his nose. He waves at me and proceeds to his pre-injury routine where I stay by my register, and he collects what he needs from the store for this week's list of meals.
I don't like it. I miss our little routine. I'd much rather be walking and chatting next to him, but at least there is a difference. I know what the list looks like, how he plans it, and that everything in his cart is going to be part of something delicious. The way I feel about him moving around the store changes too. There's no more irritation. I don't want him to hurry up. I study him when Ben reaches the top of each aisle, and I can scan his body and confirm that he's back to normal. And maybe I also admire his lean built and muscular forearms, his hoodie and sweatpants can't hide.
Ben makes it over to my register, and I grab the highly anticipated folded piece of paper out of his hand. I rush to see what it is. 'Old-fashioned Two-Crust Peach Pie.' Not an apple one, but peaches are in season, so it's very much in line with Ben's theory of seasonal eating. I scan it. Trepidation at all the steps needed to make the pastry and eagerness to give it a try are battling for the lead role.
"I'm making one too to take to my parents." He takes a paper bag of peaches out of his cart. "We can compare the results."
I have no doubt his is going to be better, but it's not like we get to try each other's food; it'd be weird sampling pies in the parking lot. I note the brands he chose for the ingredients I saw on the recipe. His bag with what I now know are the Taekwondo fighters, is bulging. He hangs it on his shoulder and puts his hands on the empty cart.
"I'll wait for you outside by the door. The weather is nice today."
We are not back to the pre-injury routine then. I breathe out in relief. I can't imagine not having our Tuesday night parking lot conversations. I grab my stuff, and we walk slower than usual but straight to my car.
"Can I ask you a question?" I say before I change my mind.
Ben turns his head my way and looks at me. "Hasn't anybody told you it's the worst way to ask a question? And yes, go ahead, ask."
Not backing down now.
"For someone who cooks and loves food as much as you do, you are ... "
He encourages me with a nod and doesn't interrupt my search for words to describe his body without admitting that he's hot.
"Fit? From what I can see, I mean ... you are not ... overweight." We reach my car.
"OK." He stops in front of me and rocks on his heels, hands in his pockets, eyes on the ground. "It is a fair observation, but what is your question?"
"How d'you do it?"
"Well, cooking from scratch helps. I used to eat a lot of junk, so preparing food for myself improved my diet. And I stay active. I run, swim, bike, and practice martial arts."
"Yeesh, that's a long list." No wonder he's in shape. "Did you get injured in a competition then?"
"No." Ben stops the rocking heel to toe motion but instead of staying still he takes his hands out. His long fingers flare out as he extends them before balling them into fists. He adjusts the bag that slides off his shoulder a bit.
I wait for him to continue but he does not. He keeps peering at the dark asphalt between us. Something is wrong, and I'm dying to ask him what it is, but it's none of my business. It's safest to switch the conversation back to me.
"I'm ashamed to say I haven't exercised in at least ten months, maybe longer."
Ben relaxes his hands. "I will be happy to pay you back for your assistance over the last few weeks and help you exercise."
Wow. Exercise with Ben. Not too keen on the 'exercise' part but 'with Ben' part might sweeten the deal. Not that he owes me anything. But it might be nice to see him in daylight, and talk to him without guarding against Chris's batlike hearing.
"A generous offer, but you don't have to. And I don't run, bike, or do martial arts. I used to swim, though, but that was years ago."
"How about walking?"
"Walking? Sure, I can walk."
It sounds innocent enough. Something acquaintances or even friends might do. And a lot more manageable than the other things on his list. Spating time for it would be hard, but something inside me really wants to make the effort.
"It's settled then. We are going for a walk."
"We're going for a walk! All right, all right, all right!" I do my best Matthew McConaughey impersonation. "I can maybe do it Saturday?"
"Saturday morning works. I'll send you the address of the park I run in. It has great walking trails.
We swap phones and add each other's info to our contact lists and it's the end of another Tuesday night with Ben. But I don't have to wait a week to see him next. I have our Saturday walk to look forward to. I push on the preset Dad programmed into my car's radio for an upbeat oldies station he favored and hum out-of-tune alongside Prince's 'Purple Rain'. I dare to be happy, even if it's for this short drive home.
