Page 16 of Make You Mine

Amerie

“I didn’t realize it would be this crowded so early,” I say.

Chelsea glances at the other shoppers around us. “I suppose that’s what we get for coming on Good Friday. Everyone and their mother is out prepping for the holiday.”

“Including us,” I laugh, pushing the shopping cart over to the produce section. I’ve got the list on my phone of things we’ll need to pick up for tonight’s special dinner.

Normally, I’m not big on hosting, but it’s important to Declan to impress his boss. We’ve already been over his house twice for dinner, where his wife cooked us a delicious full-course meal both times.

Now it’s my turn.

I’ve warned Declan that I’ll not only be preparing a traditional American dish, but I’ll be going the good ol’ fashioned soul food route. He merely grinned at me and asked if I realized who I was dealing with.

“If there’s anyone who’ll appreciate fried catfish and mac and cheese, love, it’s Cormac bloody Doyle. The man makes extra belt holes for a reason. As for his wife? She starves herself on air, so it doesn’t matter.”

I’m picking through the collard greens, checking for any that aren’t wilted, when I feel a small tug at the hem of my sweater.

I glance down to find Willow peering up at me, her big brown eyes shining with excitement.

“Mommy, guess what sound a goat makes?”

“Not now, baby. Tell me later, okay?” I say, not looking away from the bundle in my hands.

Chelsea offers a polite smile from my side, clearly unbothered by the interruption. We’d brought Willow along to run errands this morning since the schools are closed for Good Friday and the following two weeks of Easter holiday.

Crouching beside her, Chelsea asks in her usual syrupy tone, “What sound does a goat make, sweetheart?”

Willow rocks on her heels, arms behind her back like she’s winding up for a performance.

“It goes maaaahhh! Like that. But sometimes it’s more like bwaaahhh! ” Her voice jumps an octave as she tries again, louder this time. “ BWAAHH! That’s the silly goat sound!”

A few shoppers glance over. I pretend not to notice, turning back to the greens as if I’m deeply invested in the stems.

Chelsea laughs gently, as if Willow’s just charmed everybody in Sainsbury’s. “That’s very good, my dear. You’ve clearly met a goat or two in your time.”

Willow beams at the praise, emboldened like she’s just won an award for best animal impersonation in the fruit and veggies aisle.

She throws her arms out and bleats again. “ BWAAAHH! BWAAAHH! That means thank you!”

The sound ricochets off the shelves like an airhorn.

Emmett lets out a startled wail from the stroller, his little face screwing up as he flails his fists. The pacifier he’d been dozing with pops out and lands in his lap.

I heave a sigh and set the collard greens back in the produce bin. The start of a headache already pulses at my temples.

“Willow!” I snap, marching over. “What have I told you about being loud in public? You woke your brother from his nap.”

“Sorry, Mommy,” she murmurs. She looks down at her feet, poking her bottom lip out in a pout.

But instead of clinging to my side like she usually does, she edges over to Chelsea.

I slip the pacifier back between Emmett’s lips, bouncing the stroller a few times until he quiets down.

“C’mon,” I say, grabbing the cart and pushing forward. “We can’t be here all day.”

Navigating the aisles at Sainsbury’s with a shopping list full of Southern staples feels like a test I didn’t study for.

I grip the handle of the cart with one hand and my phone with the other, scrolling through my notes and mentally ticking off each ingredient I need for tonight: catfish, collards, elbow macaroni, sharp cheddar, butter, sugar, cinnamon, vanilla, peaches—preferably fresh, but I’ll take canned in juice if I have to.

And don’t even get me started on finding self-rising cornmeal mix in this country.

I swear it’s like trying to track down a unicorn.

Everything looks vaguely familiar but not right.

The produce section is crowded, the layout makes no sense to me, and I’ve already reached for the wrong kind of greens twice.

First kale, then mustard. At this point I’m just trying not to snap in front of the kids.

I hover by the dairy case, squinting at labels and wondering if their shredded cheese blend is even remotely sharp enough.

Of course it isn’t. I toss it in the cart anyway, because what choice do I have?

Chelsea keeps offering suggestions, smiling sweetly and holding things up like they’re helpful when really, they’re not.

“What about this one, Amerie?” she asks, showing me some flimsy fillets wrapped in plastic.

I glance at the package, then at her. “That’s cod.”

“Oh. Right. You’re making… catfish, was it?”

To her credit, she doesn’t take offense when I shake my head and put it back myself.

Instead, she drifts toward Willow, who’s been uncharacteristically quiet since I scolded her in produce.

She stays close to Chelsea’s side now, her little hand wrapped around the side of the shopping cart like she’s afraid to let go.

Every so often, she glances at me—wide-eyed and uncertain—but says nothing.

The guilt gnaws at me. I hadn’t meant to snap earlier. I just needed a minute to focus. But it’s like every shelf I stop in front of mocks me for not being from here. These aren’t the brands I know. The packaging is different and the labels are confusing. Even the eggs are warm.

By the time we make it to the checkout line, I’m exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with physical effort. I glance over at Willow and soften my voice. “Hey, want to pick out a chocolate?”

She hesitates, then shrugs, her lips tugging downward. “I’m not really hungry.”

The words settle like a stone in my stomach. I offer a small smile anyway and push the cart forward.

“Okay. Maybe later.”

We pay, bag everything up, and start heading out. I’ve barely made it ten steps outside before I hear the telltale beep from the device on my hip. My glucose monitor.

As if today wasn’t already stressful enough.

“Shit!”

The curse bursts from my mouth before I can stop it, loud enough to echo over the simmering pots and the hum of the oven. From the living room, I hear the rustle of movement, then Chelsea’s voice drifting in. Too damn bright for my current mood.

“What is it? What’s the matter?”

She appears in the doorway a second later, brow furrowed and eyes wide behind her glasses, as if something might’ve caught fire.

I can’t even form the words yet. My hands are occupied turning down burners, trying not to burn the catfish or overcook the macaroni while steam rises aggressively from the big pot of greens.

The smell is wrong—has been wrong since I started cooking—but I’d chalked it up to British produce being different.

I grab a spoon and take another cautious taste, praying it’s just my imagination.

But the second it hits my tongue, I know.

These aren’t collard greens. My stomach sinks.

“Oh my god,” I whisper, stepping back like the stove’s personally betrayed me. “These aren’t right. These aren’t—how could this have happened? How could I have grabbed the wrong type of greens? They didn’t look right when I was cutting them but I just… I thought it was because they were British.”

Chelsea inches further in, the epitome of calm in her neat cardigan and ballet flats. “Alright, breathe for a tick. What’s going on?”

I turn to her, exasperated, gesturing toward the pot like it’s obvious. “They’re mustard greens. Not collards. The whole damn flavor’s off. This is a nightmare. I’m supposed to be cooking a full-course dinner for Declan’s boss and his wife and now this?”

Chelsea grimaces with what looks like a half-sheepish, half-sympathetic wince. “Oh. That’s unfortunate. But I doubt they’ll notice the difference, Amerie. Mr. Doyle doesn’t sound like a fussy eater, and his wife sounds like the sort who lives on lettuce and cucumber water anyway.”

Her attempt at lightening the mood grates more than it soothes, but before I can reply, my gaze lands on something else.

A glass bottle with a yellowed label sitting on the counter like some part of a conspiracy.

I snatch it up and squint at the writing.

Cumin.

No. No. No. No.

“Chelsea,” I say slowly, holding the bottle like it’s radioactive. “Didn’t we grab cinnamon when we were getting ingredients for the peach cobbler?”

“I couldn’t say, dear. I wasn’t really paying attention, to be honest. You were doing the list. I was mostly with Willow, remember?”

I stare at her. At the cumin. At the goddamn mustard greens still steaming away like nothing’s wrong.

My frustration flares hotter than the stove burners. I don’t know if I’m more annoyed at myself for not noticing or at her for being so casually unhelpful.

“Can you please just go keep an eye on the kids?” I snap, sharper than I mean to, but too frazzled to take it back.

Her expression barely shifts. Just a flicker of something unreadable in her gaze before she nods and backs away. “Of course. I’ll keep them entertained.”

A minute later, I hear laughter from the living room. Willow’s silly high-pitched giggle and Chelsea’s warm, amused chuckle. Emmett squeals in delight. Their little cocoon of joy feels like a personal insult.

I press my fingers into my eyes, breathing in the kitchen’s chaos—fish sizzling, oven ticking, greens boiling over with the wrong damn flavor.

My fingers tremble as I put down the cumin.

This is supposed to be a special dinner to impress Declan’s boss.

A chance to prove I can manage the family, the food, the whole damn fantasy.

I blow out a long breath and tell myself I can fix it. For Declan’s sake.