Page 14 of Brash for It (Hellions Ride On #11)

I nod unsure what to say. He turns on the tap. I slip on my shoes—yesterday’s expensive cruelty—and wobble, then catch myself. I hate them. I hate the way they make me walk like I’m someone and need attention.

When did I become that woman?

He notices. He always seems to notice the little things. “On the list,” he states without looking at me directly. “Sensible shoes.”

The words are so hilariously unsexy that I bark out a laugh.

It shakes something loose; not grief, but something that tightens up inside me.

“Copy that.” I head to his room where I change into the few things I was able to get from Brian’s.

I don’t think it would be acceptable for me to wear his shirt and boxers out to a store.

Even if they are truly better than a snuggly blanket in comforting me in this chaos.

“Yeah, darlin’.” He glances over his shoulder at the bedroom door, “headin’ out. You forget how to get here just tap home on the navigation screen in the Tahoe.”

The SUV is not new, not spotless, and yet, it feels perfect.

It smells faintly like gasoline and pine, the floor mat on the driver’s side worn shiny under the pedals.

The seat is set for someone broader than me; I scoot it forward until my knees are a comfortable bend.

When the engine catches, the radio murmurs low.

Not a curated playlist, just local FM station.

The DJ’s accent is eastern Carolina twang laced in sweet honey and sunshine.

It feels casual. I like casual, I’ve missed it.

I drive.

The town looks different from this height, in this car that no one looks at. In the Porsche, the world parted for me—respectful, resentful. In the SUV, I’m one more body moving from point A to point B, and invisibility slides over me like shade. I didn’t know I missed it until now.

I point myself toward places that sell the most obvious things: underwear, socks, jeans, T-shirts.

Department store or big box? The thought hovers.

Brian loved high-end; he wanted me to match the home, the car, the life.

Twice a year we took a trip to Dubai just to make sure he was dressed in the best possible threads and I had to match even if I always felt like this was all over my head.

The labels in my closet said too much about the entitlement I was living and being away from it, I feel like a damn fool.

There’s a weird kind of freedom in turning away from the mall that smells like perfume and hair products and stepping instead into the fluorescent lights of a Target.

The automatic doors whoosh. The air is too cold. The store whispers: everything you need is here, if you can stand up and keep making decisions.

I start with a basket. It’s symbolic—less daunting than a cart—and within five minutes it’s silly because the basket is cutting into my elbow as I juggle cotton briefs and sports bras and a three-pack of plain white tees.

Eventually, I swap for a cart and keep moving.

Leggings, soft denim that doesn’t scream, a gray hoodie, a black one, two tank tops, a pajama set with tiny stars because the idea of having something of my own to sleep in that isn’t borrowed makes my ribs expand.

Plus, how do I know Kellum doesn’t miss his shirt?

It might be one of his favorites and I’m hogging it.

On a middle aisle, a display of sneakers promises comfort.

I try on a pair and almost cry at the simple, stupid mercy of walking without pain.

Toiletries next. The list grows itself: shampoo that smells like vanilla, conditioner to match, a box of bar soaps because they are cheaper, some tampons, pantyliners, a brush, plain hair ties, a good face wash that doesn’t require an instruction manual, moisturizer, mascara, and a cheap tinted lip balm.

A notebook finds me in the stationary aisle.

Black cover, spiral spine, a pack of pens clipped to the front.

On the next shelf, a literal list-making pad shouts GET IT DONE at the top of every page.

I put that one back. My version of that phrase is sitting in Kellum’s kitchen drinking coffee as if it grew there. Just do the next thing.

I stall in handbags. My old one is beautiful and impractical, an art object with a handle.

I run my fingertips over a simple canvas tote with a zipper and six pockets.

Pockets. Toiletries, wallet, notebook, pen, phone.

I drop it in the cart, not caring if it matches anything because matching shit isn’t a need right now.

And I am definitely in need of all the things so I will have to make due.

At checkout, the total looms. I peel off bills, aware of the way my hand shakes, aware of the way the cashier looks without looking, how her smile is the same one she gives to everyone — which is oddly comforting.

When she hands me the receipt, it’s a small ceremony: you bought things and now they belong to you. No one else gets to say yes or no.

I sit in the SUV with the engine on, but in park, and the AC blowing through vents like an indulgence. I open the notebook and put Next Things at the top of the first page in block letters. Under it, begin.

Phone numbers (Trina, a reminder to ask for hers; anyone else? question mark).

Bank (figure out access, what do I have if anything left).

PO Box (find a damn address that isn’t his).

Job? (??).

Clothes (done).

Shoes (done).

My handwriting isn’t neat. I don’t care. The list looks like something with edges.

The new phone buzzes in my cup holder. A text balloon blooms from Kellum — Cell : You good?

I type: Yes. Target conquered. Got shoes. They don’t hurt. Might cry. I stare at it, then backspace the last two words and replace them with *:) *

He’s not a smiley face guy. I hit send anyway.

Three dots. Then he replies. Good. Eat something.

I stare at the screen. He doesn’t ask me to send a photo so he can approve what I bought. He doesn’t demand proof of location. He says eat like it’s a command my body has been waiting to obey.

I drive to a grocery store with fewer cars in the lot, go inside and buy a premade sandwich, bottled water, and an apple.

The total is less than ten dollars. I carry the bag to the SUV and eat in the driver’s seat with the AC humming and a view of pine trees pressing together at the edge of the lot.

The sandwich is turkey and white bread. It’s nothing and everything.

I taste mustard and a calm washes over me. I’m doing the things.

After, I take the long way back, not because I’m stalling, but because the day is doing that shimmering late-afternoon thing where the light turns the world soft at the edges. The sky is a Carolina blue I used to ignore. Today, I notice. I crack the window. The smell of cut grass is a miracle.

My phone pings again. Trina this time: It’s Trina, Pretty Boy called gave me this number. Checking on you. You okay? she writes.

I think so, I type. He fed me. He gave me a phone. He told me to buy shoes. I’m figuring it out.

Her reply makes me laugh lightly . Sensational advice. If you didn’t know, he’s bossy. It helps.

It does, I admit.

She drops a heart, not the curling romantic kind, the solid one.

I send one back.

I think of calling… someone. But the Rolodex in my head flips and flips and finds blank cards. Friends I let drift because my orbit narrowed around Brian’s sun. Family buried in another state. A distant cousin who’d pick up the phone and offer sympathy without real meaning behind it.

The empty is honest. I write Make friends at the bottom of my list and feel ridiculous.

Then I write Brian (wait for karma to do her best) next to it, and it’s less ridiculous.

Underneath, almost as a joke, I write Kellum?

and immediately scribble a question mark so big it nearly covers the bottom of the page.

On the way back to Kellum’s, I stop at a thrift store with a hand-painted sign out front.

The inside smells like old books and dryer sheets.

I find a denim jacket with the elbows worn soft and a small chip in the collar where someone’s dog probably loved it too hard.

I slide it on and the mirror throws a different version of me back—less expensive, more real.

The woman at the register wraps the jacket in tissue paper like it’s treasure and I could love her for that alone.

By the time I pull into Kellum’s drive, the day has slipped away and my belly is growling for dinner. I park where I think I should because it’s where he had the SUV before and bleep the locks because some habits survive are good to have, like locking a car.

Inside, the place smells faintly like garlic. He’s at the stove again, stirring something in a pot with the intensity of a master chef on some competitive cooking show.

“You cook all the time?” I ask, surprised that he is cooking again and didn’t just pick something up.

“I feed,” he shares without looking up. “Big difference.”

I set the bags on the chair, the new tote on the table. He turns, takes me in as if tallying. His eyes catch on the sneakers. He nods once. “Good choice.”

“I bought… some things.” My voice sounds shy around the edges, like I’m at a school show-and-tell. “And a jacket. And a notebook.”

“The notebook’s important.” He points with the wooden spoon at my tote. “Write it down or forget it the next minute.”

I grin despite the day. “I did Next Things with caps.” I tell him proudly or foolishly.

“Good.” He twists the burner to low and wipes his hands, then gestures toward the table. “Eat. Then we talk about what you want in this life.”

The bowl he sets in front of me is pasta with red sauce that tastes sweet and savory like he cooked it all day and I know he didn’t. I want to cry because it is the opposite of everything I used to eat with a man who critiqued plate presentation.

I don’t cry.

No, I let the aroma hit my belly and I eat.