It's a week before he sees her again.
It took him that long to figure out that she only worked nights on the day the sales changed. She's up front while the regular night cashier methodically replaces tags on all the mundane shit people buy. This week it's cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie filling. There are still a decent amount of people grabbing their last minute turkeys that will barely thaw in the sink overnight.
Daryl knew she would be here.
He saw her name on the schedule.
He doesn't look at her, his ears burn red when he thinks about Martinez, the grocery manager, calling him out for looking at the wrong schedule. Daryl knows that if he looks at her she will see. His face won't hide the way he fumbled through the pages and found out her name isn't Bethany or Elizabeth. It won't conceal the fact that he knows she'll be off the day after Thanksgiving or that her shifts have suddenly switched to the evening.
The back room is a mess.
Bins of cardboard and garbage piled up in front of the compacters, carts full of damages and returns.
The night goes by quickly and god does he want that three o'clock cigarette as his mind drifts to meeting his brother to spend a few hours in the woods when he gets out.
He's listening to Merle's drunken voicemail about where to meet when she walks up to him outside. There isn't any wind tonight.
She just watches him for a minute, deciding if he's talking to someone.
"Just a voicemail." He flips the phone closed and slides it into his pocket before taking the coffee from her outstretched hand.
"I didn't know how you take it." Beth digs into her pocket and pulls out some creamers and packets of sugar.
He takes two small white packets and tears them open with his teeth. He doesn't see the laugh in her eyes.
"Don't you dare spit those on the ground."
Her fingertips graze his lips when she plucks the scraps of paper from his mouth. She just reaches out to him like it's nothing, there's no analyzing every millisecond of contact when she steadies his hand and takes the top off his coffee so he can add his sugar. Daryl is frozen watching her pull out a plastic bag of stirrers from her coat pocket, his skin still buzzing where she touched him.
"Got the whole shop in there?" He pretends. He can do that, be cool.
"Pretty much." She smiles. No, she doesn't just smile. She smiles at him. "So, any plans for Thanksgiving?"
She doesn't sip her coffee. She gulps it down out of one of those big thermal cups while her eyes stay on him.
Daryl shrugs, "Going hunting with my brother. Sleeping."
"I'll bring you leftovers." She tips the last of her coffee into her mouth. "Gotta get back."
"I got my own food. Thanks for the coffee though."
She smiles again, just for him. "I know that you have food, Daryl."
He doesn't wear a name tag.
He doesn't have to actually ask, just cocks his head.
"I looked at your schedule."
He shakes his head, kicking himself for being nervous.
The fluorescent light washes her out, makes her look pale and tired, but she waves to him before she disappears out of sight.
Merle blows him off. Just like every year since he's been back.
Daryl hunts alone, convinces himself that he's content in the quiet of the woods, leaves empty handed, and then goes home to cold pizza and a football game he doesn't give a shit about. He doesn't even remember which team he picked in the pool. He cracks open a beer and falls asleep on the couch thinking about family dinners that he never had.
"Yo, Dixon!"
He just nods his head to acknowledge he's paying attention.
"Boss says you better get your shit out of the fridge."
Sure enough there's a tupperware container with his name on it, and a little note.
'Turkey Soup. Hope you like it.' He huffs out a breath at the rudimentary turkey drawn beneath the words.
The soup's damn good.