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“That’s not what I mean.”

I ignore him, irritated he’s here, in my Friday night ritual, on my holy ground.

He stays too close as I work my way through every vegetable. Watching. Hovering.

Finally, it unnerves me just enough I stop pushing my cart, turning to face him.

“Since you won’t leave me alone, I’m listening.”

His smile is smug and annoying as hell. He holds up his hand and stuck to one finger is a pink piece of paper. No, a stack of pink papers.Sticky notes?

My eyes narrow, but damn him, I’m curious.

“I made a list,” he says, proud.

“Of?” I ask, stretching my neck from side to side but doing nothing to squelch my anxiety and impatience over whatever it is he’s doing.

“Of how to help you really live.” When he beams, I want to punch him in the face.

“You know what?” I start pushing my cart away from him, heading toward the dairy section. “No. I’mliving, Bo. This is absurd. And offensive.”

He follows, his own cart rolling right beside mine, ignoring me. “If you’reliving, why are you here alone on a Friday night?”

“Why areyouhere alone on a Friday night?” I respond.

“Because I dropped Lucy off at her cousin’s house so I could come findyou.”

I hate his answer with every fiber of my being.

“Bo, I get it, I’m alone. I’m easy to take pity on because of my family history and the fact I’m likely to drop dead any minute. But this”—I wiggle my finger between us—“isn’t happening.”

“I already told you it wasn’t,” he says, tilting his head just enough some of the pushed back hair falls toward his face. His lips pinch, stilling the toothpick as if trying to hide a smile.

I blow out a frustrated breath.

I weigh my options, mentally making my own lists. On one hand, I could do whatever he has on those notes—live,or die, depending on what they say—and spend time with him, which in turn could lead to some kind of friendship and him watching me die. On the other hand, I could ignore him, continue living my life the way I am, and die alone.

And while the latter is the tidier and more straightforward of the two, it sounds depressing as hell and makes a sour taste fill my mouth.

I’m living...am I living?

I pull out my phone.

“What are you doing?”

I glare at him. “I’m seeing if you’re right.” I angle the screen toward him so he can seeWhat does it mean to feel alive?typed in the search bar.

He laughs in disbelief, rubbing a hand across his bearded jaw. “You’re looking it up?!”

I pin him with a look that I really hope conveys,Fuck offbefore reading the answer aloud:

“Feeling and being alive requires a deep psychological and physical meeting of needs. A sense of unity within, often a heightened experience of senses and awareness. When in a state of aliveness, there’s a deep-rooted sense of joy along with an indescribable feeling of freedom. To be alive means to have a passion for living.”

I pause, considering this, and scoff. Then feel slightly attacked.

Are my needs physically and psychologically met? Hmm…

Do I feel a sense of unity and experience all senses? Well…