LOL. Should be quite a night.
Which makes me smile, a little bit.
I decide to make homemade edible cookie dough. When I tell Reid about it at work, he seems both impressed and confused.
“But how is regular cookie dough not edible?” he asks. We’re in the back room, unboxing new inventory.
“Well, it has raw eggs.”
“Oh, okay.” He nods—but a moment later, he frowns. “And you’re not supposed to eat raw eggs . . .”
“Reid, no!”
“I mean, I know you’re not supposed to eat them raw, but what if they’re mixed in with stuff?”
I side-eye him hard. “You know they’re still raw, right?”
“I know, but they’re neutralized by the other ingredients.”
“That is not how eggs work.” I bite back a smile. “I think you just have to try the egg-free kind. It’s really good. I promise.”
He leans backward on his palms and seems to consider this for a moment. Finally, he nods. “Okay. I approve.”
“Whew.” I stretch forward, pulling the last box toward me. We actually timed this well—we’ll get the last stuff unboxed right at the end of the workday.
“So when is this happening?” he asks.
“Tomorrow, probably? I’ll make a supply run to CVS when I leave here.”
“To CVS?” He looks scandalized. “No, you have to go to the Giant in Silver Spring. It’s the all-time best grocery store.”
I look up. “Oh, really?”
“Yes.” He gives one of those very serious Reid nods, but his dimple flickers.
“Is it on the Metro?” I ask.
“Oh. I don’t think so.”
I bite my lip. “Oh, okay. I don’t have a car.”
Reid is quiet for a minute, and I feel slightly awkward. It’s funny: I don’t really mind the car thing. I think it bothers Cassie more than it bothers me. But now I feel weirdly self-conscious about it, and I have no idea why.
“Do you want a ride there?” he asks.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I don’t mind. Seriously, it would be fun. I like grocery shopping.”
“Really?” I shoot him the Molly Face.
He smiles. “Okay, not really. But I like cookie dough. And if I drive you to the supermarket, you’d probably have to give me some.”
“Probably,” I agree. Now I’m smiling, too. I can’t help it.
So now I’m in Reid’s car, and he’s driving me to the grocery store. A very particular grocery store. Apparently the best grocery store, and I’ll have to take his word for that.
An immediate perk of riding with Reid: he’s placed a bag of Cadbury Mini Eggs open between us in front of the gearshift.
“You know what I love about Cadbury Mini Eggs?” I lean back against the seat. “Their simplicity.”
“Right? No one appreciates that.”
“I’m really over fancy desserts. Like, I’m sorry, but anything with citrus infusion and caramelized kumquats or almond and Cointreau, or anything like that . . . I mean, does anyone actually like that stuff?”
He laughs. “Nope.”
“They just think they’re supposed to like it because they’re trying to look classy.”
“Trying and failing,” says Reid.
“Utterly failing.”
We pull into the parking lot of Giant, and Reid picks a spot by the cart return. Then he twists off the ignition and looks at me with this solemn expression. “Are you ready for the grocery experience of a lifetime?”
“Well, I’m pretty sure I’ve been here before.”
“But not with me,” he says firmly.
“Not with you.” I feel suddenly shy.
It occurs to me, as we’re crossing the parking lot, that people probably assume we’re a couple. Like maybe we’re a college-age couple grabbing food for the night. Young lovebirds. Boyfriend and girlfriend. It’s like when someone mistakes the random guy sitting next to you on the Metro for your dad.
There’s a line of carts near the entrance, but as soon as I ease one out, Reid tugs the front end and guides me over to a bench outside the store. Then, he pushes the cart to the side and sits, looking up at me expectantly. I sit down next to him.
“So, now you need to take out your phone.”
“Why?”
“You’ll see.” He pulls his own phone out of his pocket. “And get into your notes app.”
“Okay.” I’m smiling. He’s being kind of bossy, and I’m sorry, but it’s hilarious. It’s like when your teacher leaves the room for a second and puts a Well-Behaved Kid in charge. Reid is a Well-Behaved Kid on a power trip, and it’s so cute, I have to play along.
“You got it?” He peeks over my shoulder. “Good. Now write down the titles of three pop songs from the early 2000s.”
“What? Why?”
“Because those are the rules.”
“So I just write down . . . any pop songs?” I ask.
“Yup. But choose wisely.”
I pause for a moment, finger poised above my keypad. I want to pick the absolute worst ones. I want the ones that almost ruined music. They come to me quickly.
1. Stacy’s Mom
2. Sk8er Boi
3. I’m Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman
“Excellent,” Reid says.
“Let’s see yours.” He tilts his phone toward me, and I burst out laughing. Because in another life, I’m pretty sure Reid was someone’s dorky dad. He even looks proud of himself.
1. Find me in da club
2. The one with the girl playing the piano singing about if she could fall into the sky
3. Justin Timberlake
“So now what?” I ask.
“Good question. The rules are as follows: if any one of your songs gets played, you get twenty points.”
“If the supermarket plays them?”
“Yes.”
“So, out of every song in the entire world, you think this supermarket will play one of the six random songs we happened to choose.”
“Absolutely.”
I laugh. “Why?”
“It’s magic.” He shrugs. “And because all grocery stores play early 2000s pop music. It’s federal law.”
I’m skeptical until the moment we walk into the store and “Stacy’s Mom” is playing.
“Oh hey. Twenty points to me,” I say.
Reid groans, leaning into the cart handle. “Beginner’s luck.” He eases the cart down the baking aisle, and literally makes it three steps before getting distracted by tubs of frosting. “Ohhh. Hey.” He picks up some Duncan Hines chocolate. “Oh man. I would sit and eat this with a spoon, like yogurt. Is that weird?”
“Is that a real question?” Seriously, I want to know: is there anyone who wouldn’t eat a tub of chocolate frosting like yogurt?
All of a sudden, I’m inspired. “Can I add a rule to our game?”
“Definitely!”
“Okay.” I grin. “Quick challenge. Ten points to whoever finds the grossest flavor of frosting in the next minute, starting . . . now.”
I set the stopwatch on my phone, and we both fall silent. I’m feeling very competitive, for some reason, which isn’t like me at all. Maybe this is what it’s like to be Cassie. She used to win all the competitions at camp: hot dog eating, pig latin speaking, watermelon seed spitting, and all the other things I never really cared about.
But I care about this. I want the ten points—these ten nebulous points that count toward literally nothing. And it’s exhilarating. I scan the shelves, and almost everything is pretty standard: home-style chocolate and Funfetti and cream cheese. There are a few contenders, like coconut pecan and key lime, but in the end, I have to throw my shade at Betty Crocker’s Limited Edition maple bacon. Not okay, Betty.
Reid is flailing at the forty-five-second mark. “Molly, help! They all look good.”
“You are joking.”
“Maybe I just like all frosting?”
I shake my head sadly. “I don’t even know what to say to that.”