A/N:Thank you so much for the continuous love from all my reviewers!
Chapter 4
I'm depressed.
Yeah, that's totally a self diagnosis. One I'm not qualified to make, but it's the label I choose.
My family has noticed. I was never good at hiding my emotions. Or, in this case, my lack of emotions.
I brought it up at a family dinner, randomly, causing all of them to stop eating and stare at me.
My mom stared the hardest, squinting her eyes like some one does when he or she is concentrating hard - or constipated. Glen swallowed an impressive bite of steak and walked over to me, making me back up suspiciously. I didn't put it past him not to spit in my drink. After he looked around me for a moment, he expertly declared me A-okay, saying how since there wasn't a blob sliding around with a frowny face, I couldn't be depressed.
It took me about thirty seconds to realize he was talking about a Zoloft commercial. It took me five more seconds to start laughing.
Dad just watched us all like we were crazy, mumbling to himself as he finished his meal in silence. I didn't have the heart to tell him that talking to himself probably certifiably made him crazy.
That was two weeks ago. I haven't been back.
My family is amazing. Really, they are. But I can only handle them in small doses, and being around them for a whole meal makes me really rethink the whole 'not depressed' thing.
So now I'm at the grocery story, trying my damnedest to find where the Easy Mac is. It may be easy to make, but it sure as hell isn't easy to find. Actually I take that back, because it's a give-and-take relationship with the Easy Mac. I either completely burn the pasta, undercook it, or use way too much water, all resulting in it being inedible. Easy my ass.
And those signs above the aisles don't help, because I assume that Easy Mac would be categorized as a pasta, you know, considering it is a pasta. But no, it's in the section with Mexican Food.
Apparently, in my town, only Hispanics - and myself - eat it. I'll make sure to suggest the name change to "Macaroni fácil" to the cashier Brenda.
Yeah, I'm on a first name basis.
Fuck I need a life.
I push aside thoughts of a lack of a life and push my gimp cart along, using every ounce of strength in me to keep the damn thing straight. In all the years I've been coming here, I've yet to get a cart that doesn't veer to the left or make an annoying squeaking noise that sounds like a baby seal being tortured. I've given up searching for a decent cart. I'm convinced they are simply myths, having never seen one in my entire life.
Apparently cart maintenance is not a priority here.
I look around the backwoods country store.
Neither is any semblance of order or convenience.
I shove my injured seal cart to the end of the aisle, not even bothering to look up at the signs for the other rows. I know it's not going to do anything other than further confuse and frustrate me. God knows I don't need more of that in my life.
With my cart creeping slowly out of the aisle, I don't see the rushed shopper coming from my right, effectively crashing into the side of my cart. This just reinforces my idea for mirrors on these death traps.
And airbags.
"God, I'm so sorry!" I rush out, face flush in mortification. It's no wonder I avoid public places; my human interaction is very limited.
"While I'm sure he appreciates that, he's not the one you ran into."
I look as I hear the amused voice of my attempted killer. It's all I can do to keep my jaw from colliding painfully with the floor. The dent in my cart is easily forgotten.
It's her.
Holy fuck...it's DREAM GIRL! Two feet from me.
She watches me with a small smirk, one I'm familiar with but seems so much better this time. "Okay, well I know you're not mute because you spoke about five minutes ago."
"Uh, no, no I'm not mute." I mentally roll my eyes at myself. I wish I was mute, so that I'd shut my fucking mouth. I'm surprising myself by getting out sounds that are more intelligent than grunts. I cannot believe that she's here.
"Ah, that's good." She smiles at me, a full one this time. It makes it harder to look away. "I was worried. That PTSD can be pretty harsh. Few things are worse than a cart collision."
I feel my lips quirk in response, finding her silliness addicting. "I'm just waiting until I get home to crawl into the fetal position." I extend my hand out, hoping the clamminess I feel is only in my mind. "I'm Spencer."
I feel my anticipation build, watching her hand reach out as if in slow motion.
"I'm God," she jokes, referring to my apology early. "But I allow a select few to call me Ashley."
I think my heart just stopped. I never knew knowing a name could be so empowering, as if it means so much more than had I known her name but not seen her face. I'm surprised words are still forming, as I'm still convinced more than half of my brain has shut down.
"The people you almost kill?" I retort lightly, delighting in the white teeth that flash at me from behind her lips. "Because I highly doubt that list consists of 'a select few.'"
Ashley purses her lips in mock anger and pretends to draw her hand back. And even though I know she's playing, my hand snatches out on its on accord and grabs hers. Her eyes snap to me, eyebrows raised slightly. I feel the need to backtrack.
"It's, uh, nice to meet you." And just like that, the Spencer who can at least communicate simply with other humans has gone on vacation. I'm not sure that she was even here at all.
And with her hand resting warmly in mine, my brain isn't sending impulses to my mouth, but rather, closer to my chest. This realization causes me to release her hand as quickly as I grabbed it. I miss the feeling already.
I bring my eyes back to Ashley's wondering what she's thinking about my strangeness. Wondering if she's wishing she hadn't run into my cart. Wishing she'd just gone ahead and tried to survive on microwaveable foods for another week.
All I find is her brown eyes lit with amusement; it's a look I've seen often in my dreams. The softness I've come to adore is present as well, though just like her smile, it seems infinitely better in this moment. As if all I'd had before was a pitiful projection, one that could demonstrate the effectiveness, but never truly copy it.
Ashley puts her hands on her cart and pretends to rev it, drawing yet another smile from me. She adjusts imaginary mirrors. "I promise to slow down next time, officer."
I barely register the joke. I'm too busy staring at her left hand.
It's bare.
"You don't have a ring," I tell her stupidly, still engrossed in my staring match with her finger.
She laughs unsurely. "Well...you don't have a belt."
Her randomness catches my attention. "What?" I can't help but laugh at her.
Ashley shrugs. "I don't know...I just thought we were taking turns pointing out random things to each other."
My face reddens. "Oh no, I was just..." My eyes roam around, searching for an explanation that doesn't involve explaining how I've had multiple dreams about her. For some reason strangers find it creepy when you tell them that. Go figure. "Just, uh, noticing..."
Her smile widens and my blush deepens. I'm pretty sure it's a direct correlation. "Well you'd be correct in your, uh, noticing."
I laugh as she mimics my nervousness, the tension fading, at least momentarily. I don't think I can truly relax, not when she's so close to me, and I'm waiting for the scene to fade out and to wake up in my room, because that's how it always happens; right when I just know things are going to get good, I wake up.
Ashley senses my journey into my own world, mistaking it for disinterest. "Well I'll let you get back to your-" She looks in my cart. "organic food binge."
I look down at my cart and laugh. Eighty percent of the contents are microwaveable.
I nod at her enthusiastically. "Of course. I've got to get my daily tofu requirements."
She smiles again and I watch her features soften. "It was nice meeting you, Spencer."
My insides squirm, though in a strangely pleasant way. "Yeah, you too."
I can't make myself say her name. My tongue feels heavy enough, and her name feels extra thick, as if it's peanut butter; it tastes great, but trying to say anything with it in your mouth is near impossible, and you just end up not doing the word justice.
My eyes follow her retreating form while my brain berates me for letting her go. My body finally droops as all the tension leave me in one big, long sigh. I put my hands back on my cart and push it into another row, searching for the last items on my list with even less enthusiasm than I had when I first started.
When I arrive home, I go through the tedious task of taking everything out of my car and transporting it into my kitchen, just so I can unbag it and put it all up. It's a cruel cycle.
I suddenly stop, a hand resting on my microwaveable hamburger helper as a realization hits me.
My cart stopped squeaking after my collision with Ashley, riding straight and quiet the rest of my trip.
This causes a smile to start up.
A strange piece of paper catches my eyes. Further examination shows me a number. But more important than the number...is the name right above it.
God.
This causes my heart to start up.
