Authors: S.E. Hall
It’s charming and feminine and…
what only Cannon Blackwell calls me
.
Yep, definitely the endorphins.
“What is it about this cab that makes you want to stay in it? The sexy driver? The alluring scent of ass and feet?”
“Huh?” I flinch, his hot breath tickling my ear. “What?”
“We’re here. Or as
your people
might say, time to get out.”
The first cart had one loner kamikaze wheel, doing its own thing, spinning against the grain of the other three.
Number two had clearly been run through some gum or gunk recently, the front right wheel sticking and stopping short every few seconds.
Cart three bore a suspicious looking glob of green-yellowish
something
on the handle. (It was clearly a booger, but I think Cannon would have lost it had I actually confirmed it out loud, having tried to stifle a gagging noise when he saw it.)
If
anyone
else, except Conner, of course, but
anyone
else went back for a different cart this many times, I would go “Ran out of Paxil ON the day I got my period while finding out I was allergic to chocolate” on their ass—totally lending credence to Jarrett’s theory. But when Cannon, who we’ve already established is a perfectionist, does it, I can’t even feign annoyance; something about the way he does OCD is as fascinating as it is comical.
The female clerks on lanes 1-3, all watching in amusement and appreciation, are more than obviously thinking the same thing if the twirling of their hair and high-pitched giggles are any testament.
Finally
, he finds one he likes, his “yes” joined by an air fist, and gets a good push going. While rolling, he hops on the lower bar,
riding
the cart down the aisle as I speed up my steps to catch him. “You want a ride? I’ll push ya,” he offers, which I immediately decline, starting to aimlessly toss stuff in the basket.
I make it over one aisle before he goes coasting by me, all smiles.
“You sure you don’t want a ride?” his voice trails behind him.
I snicker to myself and ignore him, searching for a men’s vitamin Conner might actually take, ones that don’t “taste like shoes, Bethy.” My women’s version has no taste, but trying telling Bubs that.
“I am
so
sorry.” Cannon’s panicked apology grabs my attention from the label I’m reading. I slap a hand over my mouth to contain snorting laughter, the scene before me, since I can clearly tell no one’s actually hurt, instantly hilarious. “Are you sure you’re okay? I really am very sorry,” he pleads, hands shaking as he checks over the old lady he apparently almost ran over with his cart surfing.
“Watch where you’re going!” She shakes a bony finger at him. “And
push
the cart! This isn’t an amusement park, young man!” Tsking him and shaking her head, which is covered in curlers and plastic, she turns and hobbles away, turning her scathing glare back twice to make absolutely sure he caught her disdain.
I’m biting down on my lip so hard it’s throbbing, still stifling laughter, when Cannon turns to me. “Did she look okay to you? I don’t think I hurt her, she said she was fine. You heard her say that, didn’t you? Sh-she walked right out in front of me.” He gulps, pushing back his hair and blowing out a long, deep breath.
“Cannon,” I say sternly, pulling him from panic to my eyes. “She was fine, relax. Now,” my face cracks, the grin not to be caged any longer, “bring the cart to me, with both your feet on the floor, and then step away slowly.”
Head dropped, his boots scuff the floor as he begrudgingly drags the cart over to me like a scolded puppy. “I told you the poor old woman you almost killed was fine. I can only assume you’re still pouting because you can’t
ride
the cart anymore?” I tease him.
Slowly looking up, one side of his mouth curling, he winks. “Kinda.”
“You’re terrible.” I chuckle, dragging the wheeled weapon away from the scene of the crime. “Come on, Andretti. And please try not to accost any more senior citizens.”
We wander up and down several more aisles, both grabbing useless crap we don’t need, talking and laughing the whole time. Shopping with Cannon is…fun, effortless…light; I think probably anything would be. He’s not easy to talk to, the famous cliché, because talking to someone new, gauging and censoring every single word I say to them, is
never “
easy.” Rather, he’s engaging, and interesting, and funny; it’s as comfortable as it will probably ever get for me.
And maybe I don’t get all his jokes right away, but he gets mine! He has a natural, charismatic way of making you feel like the funniest person in the world…and I’m basking in it. My dry wit isn’t for everyone, almost no one, in fact, but he’s confirmed what I’ve suspected all along…I’m funny as fuck.
“Why are you buying three kinds of toothpaste? You’re fancy, huh?”
“I told you, Conner’s very particular that no one uses his. And I’m not about to share with the boys. They never put the cap back on, so the end gets all mucked up.”
“Why don’t they buy their own?”
“They just don’t. I’m here, and I don’t mind.” I turn and lean over the edge of the cart, letting an armful of toothpastes, razors and men’s shampoo fall, Cannon’s eyes on me critical and discerning.
“You don’t take a cut from the show payments, it’s your bus,
and
you buy everyone’s stuff. What gives?”
“I don’t take what I don’t need and I like helping my friends. Simple.” It’s more of an answer than I usually give. I’ve also already given him my back, heading to the hair products. “Which one do you think?” I ask when he makes it to me, holding up a box of magenta in my left hand and black-purple in my right.
Cannon’s eyes pop out in bewilderment. “Um, neither. What color’s your hair naturally?” He glances up to my obviously bleached hair.
“Ugh, ugly boring brown. No, thank you.” I shake the boxes, reminding him again to choose.
“Brown like your eyes?” It comes out more a breath than actual words.
“Yes, now—”
“Except when you wear a light top, white or pink. Then they look more hazel, with a pretty green cast to them.”
Rhett was right—
he’s lyrical
.
We face off, unmoving, my hands still holding up the boxes, his searing gaze never veering from mine.
I’m Lizzie, and he’s thoroughly considered my eyes.
A slight heat tinges my cheeks and I curtly duck my head and try not to fidget. He then shifts from around the other side of the cart between us and stands closely, studying the shelf behind me.
“I’d go with this one.” He steps back, talking up to me now. “Warm Chestnut Brown. Not that you don’t look great now, but I’ll bet it’s spectacular when you just do you. If you’re making a change anyway, why not change back to the real Lizzie?”
There it is again, that word.
Lizzie
.
“Yeah, ok.” I shrug, putting my choices back, grabbing the box from his hand and tossing it in the cart. “It’s been a while since I’ve done au natural. What the hell.”
“Perfect choice.” He winks at me, leaning against the cart that he’s now pushing very responsibly. “We get everything then?”
“Did you want to get a phone? Somebody might be worried about you.”
“No need. The only person that might be worried is my sister, Sommerlyn. And I don’t know her number to call anyway. I always just pulled up her name in my cell.”
The mystery of Sommerlyn solved—sister.
“What about Gertrude?” I ask innocently.
“Who?”
“Gertrude, Esther, the fiancé?”
“
Ex
-fiancé. Ruthie.”
I toss an unconcerned hand at him. “Whatever, I was close, all old lady names.”
“Gertrude,” he mumbles with a grin, shaking his head. “I doubt it, and couldn’t care less either way. But now that you brought it up, I don’t want Sommer to worry. Maybe I could use your laptop to sign in to my email and send her one? My parents too I guess, while I’m at it.”
“Sure.” I nod. “Good idea. I guess we’re done then.” Our cart overfloweth, impulse buys completing covering all the things we’d
actually
come for, including a six-pack of black boxer briefs and a bag of who gives a shit what the socks look like.
“I saw fish tanks on the far wall back there. We should check if they found Conner any new fish. If not, we can hook him up.”
So thoughtful, but has he missed the ten times I’ve already texted my uncle? Not only do I know they found a pet store, but also every move they’ve made all day.
“No, they found some,” my voice dips, heavy with appreciation, “but thanks for thinking of Conner. You’re good with him.”
“
I’m good with him, he’s good with me. We’re friends. Why?” He stops unloading onto the conveyer belt to meet my gaze. “Were you afraid he wouldn’t like me? That any of them wouldn’t?”
They’re friends?
Part of me wants so badly to believe he genuinely sees Conner that way,
so
badly, in fact, that I’m battling back tears right now. But the other part of me, the girl who’s jumped on the backs of grown men and beat on their heads as hard as I could for being insensitive, loud-mouthed assholes, is skeptical. And worse yet, what if he’s a fake, saying these things slick off his tongue like a shyster needing a place to crash, just telling me what I want to hear?
That would be the worst kind of cruelty; deceitfully laid false-hope. At least a dickhead rocks it out loud, removing all doubt and not wasting my time, or Conner’s. Or the flip side of being cruel, condescending sympathy, isn’t brutal
or
deceitful either, just annoying.
No, a wolf in sheep’s mind-fucking clothing would be the worst. And would hurt Conner the worst, pissing me off the greatest.
“Conner likes everyone, Jarrett too. Least of my worries,” I finally respond, trying to scoot in front of him without actual contact when he tries to pay the cashier. “I’ve got it. You’re maybe $30 of the ridiculous amount of shit we bought.”
“And you’re in for an $8 box of brown. I can pitch in. I’d like to.”
Dina, according to her nametag, is outright laughing at us, a couple of goons making a spectacle, stubbornly shoving our credit cards and hands over the top of one another’s at her.
“I. Am. Paying,” I grind out in a low, definitive command. “Now step away from Dina’s register, you’re scaring her. Much like the grandma earlier,” I mumble the last part under my breath.
“Oh, I’m not scared,” Dina beams and pops her gum. “You two are hilarious. Most excitement I’ve had in my line all day.”
“Well, Dina, will you be scared when I tackle him to the ground and start sawing on his throat with the edge of my Black Card?” I smile back sweetly.
“Don’t worry, Dina, she’s all talk,” Cannon assures her. “But I’ll go ahead and
let
her pay.” He backs up, crossing his arms and grinning devilishly. “No arguments at the pharmacy though, young lady. I
am
paying for your crazy pills.”
Ooh, so Cannon likes to play, does he? We’ll see about that when I’ve got the mic tonight.
***
Four score and eight years later, we’ve lugged all the bags from taxi to bus. The counters, table, and floor are covered in white, plastic-contained crap we don’t need, nor have the space to haul. Good thing all these men eat like they have tapeworms.
I can hear Conner and Bruce’s voices coming from the back, one directing happily, the other complying while grumbling. Jarrett’s still at the ballpark—third base, I get it now—and Rhett’s lying in bed, watching us work with a scornful sneer on his face.
I try to ignore the sinister, happy-sucking vibes he’s putting off, chanting over and over in my head that I love Rhett and wholly accept him as is, the same charity he affords me. Cannon’s stacking leftover drinks in the corner, the tiny fridge bursting full halfway through the load, whistling “In My Life,”
my
favorite Beatles song. I’m secretly watching him, strangely enchanted at his ironic song choice, when Rhett fires off the first shot.
“Hey, Jiminy Cricket, you pay for your own shit?”
That
joke I got; the “give a little whistle” cartoon, but it’s only a joke if it’s funny. Rhett’s not kidding around, he’s being mean and purposely antagonistic. I was hoping to get all this put away before alerting Conner’s curious self to our presence, but it doesn’t look like that’s gonna happen. No doubt once I call Rhett out, he’ll call back, loudly, and Conner will hear. Gotta be done though.
“Actually,” I seethe, hands braced on hips and body now facing him ready to square off, “he tried to pay for your shit too, Sunshine,” I sneer, since we’ve obviously entered the name-calling portion of the festivities.
“What shit of mine would that be? I didn’t ask for anything.” Rhett starts to exit his bed at the same time I feel the heat of Cannon moving close against my back.
“It’s fine, Cannon,” I mumble where only he can hear me, then speak the rest louder for Rhett’s benefit. “Why don’t you give us a minute?” I can more than handle Rhett; I’m far from scared of him. What I
am
afraid of is the alarming amount of testosterone suddenly clogging the atmosphere.
“Nah, I think I’ll stay,” he says from behind me. “He was talking to me, after all.”
“And now I’m talking to her,” Rhett growls, having joined us and standing practically on top of me, speaking to Cannon over my head. “Butt the fuck out, new guy.”
I place my hand on Rhett’s chest, his heart pounding against it. “Rhett, stop, you’re hungover and grumpy. Have you eaten? How ‘bout I make you—”
“I’m not hungover or hungry,” he cuts me off, his voice as raw and as laced with threatening explosion as I’ve ever heard it, especially directed at me.
“Then what’s wrong? You were fine this morning, laughing even.” And now we’re here, classic Rhett. The delay is over and we’re back to full-on thunderstorm. “Cannon didn’t get much and I
insisted
on paying for everything out of my own money.”
“You don’t have to explain yourself, Lizzie.” Cannon rests a hand on my shoulder, moving in even closer, uniting his force, his body, his support to me. Tension is radiating off him, rigid leg muscles twitching against the backs of mine, erratic heartbeat timed with my own thumping on my back. He
had
to have felt my body tighten under his touch this time. Involuntary, undefined, but not subtle. I refuse to slink from it now, though, partly because Rhett’s being a dick and it will give him satisfaction to watch me shun “new guy,” but mostly because Cannon’s doing it thinking he’s protecting me, which is screwing with my sanity far worse than my touching phobia ever has.