Cameron Cole has a plan.
After yet another relationship ends because of certain shortcomings-literally-Cameron decides it's time to swear off dating and focus her energy into her junior year at the University of Charlotte. There's an internship up...
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I grip the handle of the shopping cart, one foot planted firmly on the bottom rail and the other dangling behind me as I zoom down the aisle like a Tony Hawk dupe. The cart squeaks dramatically with every step I push off, but I'm committed.
Behind me, Scarlett mutters to herself, reading over the grocery list like it's a legally binding contract.
"Scar, think we can get pumpkin spice Pop-Tarts since we're heading into fall?" I call, spinning the cart around to face her.
She glances up, one perfectly shaped eyebrow arching."And have them sit in the pantry until they expire? Hard pass, honey."
"Don't be silly—Pop-Tarts can't expire," I scoff as she gives me a blank look. "You'll never know when you could be overcome with the sudden urge to enjoy a warm, spiced treat!"
Scarlett snorts, flipping the list over to the next item. "Fine," she says, waving a hand dismissively. "But when you don't eat them, I'm either force-feeding them to you on your deathbed or tossing them into your coffin."
"Yay!" I squeal as I push off the cart and fly down the aisle.
By the time she reaches me, I've already added the pumpkin spice Pop-Tarts to the cart with an overdramatic flourish.
Scarlett glances at the box. "You'd better actually eat those."
"I will," I promise, placing a hand over my heart like I'm pledging allegiance to the snack gods. "This is the beginning of something beautiful."
"Uh-huh," she replies, shaking her head as she side-eyes me suspiciously and continues down the aisle.
We always try to do our big weekly shop on a Wednesday afternoon, which is practically the only time we're both free—although Scarlett always regrets coming with me because I fill the cart with so much unnecessary shit. I'm just here for comedic value, really.
Not just in Trader Joe's—but in life in general.
Scarlett and I walk home together after our last classes, get into our activewear, and make the twenty-five-minute trip to the local supermarket. It's a weekly tradition—we usually grab salads and a Diet Coke from the small café near the front and eat them in the park across the street, under the setting sun.
I round the corner and follow Scarlett into the next aisle, where she's already scanning the shelves with the kind of laser focus usually reserved for defusing bombs.
Then I spot him.
A guy with a Bluetooth headset stands smack dab in the middle of the aisle, completely oblivious to the fact that he's blocking the path to what Scarlett is very clearly eyeing: spiced mango salsa. He gestures with one hand while holding his phone with the other, his voice loud enough to be heard on the other side of the store as he talks to someone on a FaceTime call.
Scarlett tries—she really does—to step around him, but she can't.
"Excuse me," she says, her voice polite but firm, as if she's giving him a chance to save himself.
