Thank you for the kind reviews.
Disclaimer: As well as not owning Joan of Arcadia, I am in no way related to Pop Tarts or any other brand names you may see.
Chapter 12
A week after moving to Arcadia, Grace decided to drop by Joan's place.
Grace banged on the door. Joan opened it and promptly dropped the laundry basket she had been holding. The look on her face was priceless.
"Hey, Girardi," Grace said. "You gonna let me in?"
"Grace," Joan breathed, "come in, come in."
Completely disregarding the clothes on the floor (Grace hoped they weren't fresh from the washing machine) Joan ushered Grace into her apartment.
"How are you? What are you doing here? How's work? Do you have a boyfriend? How long are you staying?" Joan asked excitedly as they sat on the couch.
"Slow down, Girardi, I can only answer one question at a time."
"You mean you're actually going to answer?" Joan asked, surprised.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Oh, please, you know what it means. When was the last time you voluntarily talked about your personal life?"
"Okay, there's some truth there," Grace conceded, "but I'm more mature now."
"I can't tell if you're being sarcastic or not."
Grace just smiled.
"Alright, then," Joan said after a pause, "how are you?"
"Pretty good."
"You're not going to give me details, are you?"
"Nope."
"Glad to know you're still you," Joan said.
"That may be the dumbest thing I have ever heard you say," Grace said awkwardly.
"I'm going to pretend you didn't say that," Joan said. "So, tell me, what are you doing here?"
"I moved here," Grace said.
"You're kidding me."
Grace shook her head. Joan squealed and threw herself at Grace. Grace made sure the hug was short.
"When? Why? Where do you live? Where do you work?"
"Leave time for me to answer the questions, Girardi," Grace snapped. She was smiling, though.
"Answer away," Joan commanded. She mimed locking her mouth shut and throwing away the key. With an eye roll, Grace continued.
"The paper fired me a few weeks ago," she said bluntly, ignoring Joan's gasp, "and I couldn't find another job that I liked, so I decided to move. I was going to move to New Jersey—don't ask—but then I got your letter and figured, what the hell? I might as well move back home, too."
"So that's why He… I did wonder…" Joan muttered to herself.
"Joan?"
"What? Oh, sorry. Continue."
"There isn't anything else," Grace said, still looking at Joan strangely.
"Of course there is, Grace," Joan said. "Where are you living? How long have you been here?"
"I've been here just over a week. I live in those apartments off Oak Street, and I'm currently looking for a job and some furniture. That's everything, right?"
"I can't believe you really moved back," Joan said.
"Thought you'd never see me again, did you?" Grace joked.
Much to Grace's surprise and annoyance, Joan gave a tearful nod and swept Grace into another hug.
"Girardi, you do that one more time and I'm leaving," Grace threatened.
"To go where?" Joan scoffed. "Back to your furniture-less apartment?"
"I have some furniture," Grace protested. "And I actually do have somewhere to be."
"Oh?"
"Yes," Grace said. "I'll have you know I have a job interview in an hour, and then I'm meeting my dad for dinner."
"Oh, I bet he's thrilled you're back," Joan said happily.
"He doesn't know yet," Grace said. "I'm telling him tonight."
"He'll be thrilled."
Grace nodded. They started talking about the rest of the Girardis and Joan's most recent date with the coffee house man. Grace laughed out loud when she learned his name was Joe. Joan was quite offended.
A half hour later, Grace had to leave for the interview. Joan pulled her into yet another hug and made her promise to meet for lunch the next day.
xxxxx
The day after surprising Joan and her dad, Grace went grocery shopping. She had been living on fast food and take-out since she moved, and was ready for some real food.
Grace resigned herself to only buying store brand names, and had even clipped coupons in an attempt to save money. She still didn't have a job, though she felt confident about her interview from the previous day.
Grace was debating if she should go back to the cereal aisle for Pop Tarts when she reached aisle eighteen and froze.
She gripped the handle of the cart tightly and peered down the aisle. An older woman with bad hair was clutching a huge bottle of rum, and a boy who couldn't possibly be old enough to buy this stuff was inspecting the Schnapps display. Grace desperately wanted to shove the boy out of her way and buy four bottles of the stuff. Quite clearly, she saw herself snatching the rum from the old lady's hand and making a dash for the register.
Grace took a step toward the bottles. She shook her head and backed up again. She ran a shaking hand through her hair and walked down the aisle. She stopped in front of the vodka bottles and completely ignored the looks the young boy was shooting at her.
Grace kept a death-grip on the cart, willing her hands to stay where they were. She was not going to reach for the liquor. She was going to walk away, and live a happy, productive life without vodka or tequila or rum or any of that shit.
Grace watched with detached horror as she picked out the Black Cherry flavor of her favorite vodka.
As she left the aisle, the bottle taunted her. She shouldn't have set it right on the top like that. Grace shoved it under the bread and set off to find Pop Tarts.
xxxxx
Grace took a long time putting her groceries away. She had to figure out a system for her new kitchen. For reasons she didn't understand, Grace liked having an organized kitchen.
Once satisfied that her kitchen was arranged perfectly, Grace wandered around the house. She was bored out of her mind.
She tried reading, but couldn't find a book that held her interest. She tried setting up her stereo so she could listen to music, but couldn't find all the cords. She even wished (if only for a moment) that she a television to occupy the time.
Out of desperation, she called Joan's cell. Upon hearing Grace was bored, Joan invited her to dinner with Kevin and Beth. Grace surprised even herself when she agreed.
xxxxx
Later that night, while inspecting the grocery store, the manager was surprised to find a bottle of vodka shoved behind the Pop Tart display. Muttering under his breath about kids these days, he returned the bottle to its proper place.
xxxxx
xxxxx
We're nearing the end, folks. Thanks for making it this far.
And thanks to Jane and Adam for noticing the mistake. I hope it got fixed before too many people saw.