The Simple Wild (Wild 1)

My stomach grumbles as we roll past Gigi’s Pizza & Pasta, a cute upbeat yellow place with more windows than anyone else on the street. But the neon OPEN sign by the door isn’t illuminated. If it were, I’d ask Jonah to drop me off there and I’d catch a cab home.

Jonah swerves into a parking lot and pulls in next to an ATV. A giant warehouse is ahead, finished off with an earthy brown siding and a gently sloped black tin roof. The sign above the door reads MEYER’S GROCERY, CLOTHING, AND HOUSEHOLD GOODS.

“Look, if you want to wait—”

He pops his door open and with sleek mov

es, exits his truck and rounds the front of it, before I have a chance to finish my sentence. And then he simply stands there, arms folded across his broad chest, waiting for me.

“I guess I’m going grocery shopping with Jonah,” I mutter to myself. At least this way he can’t abandon me here.

I hope.

I slide out of the passenger seat, adjusting my fitted sweater over my hips and waist.

Jonah’s eyes catch the subtle move and then he turns away, looking wholly disinterested. That’s fine, because I’m not trying to attract him. What would be his type anyway, I wonder. I couldn’t even hazard a guess, other than to say “hardy.”

He marches for a set of stairs that lead to the main door.

And despite the fact that he’s a jerk, I can’t help but admire the curves of his shoulders and arms as I follow him in. He has an impressive upper body. The upper body of someone who lifts weights regularly. His lower body, I can’t discern. His jeans are too loose to show any real definition, plus he should tighten his belt a few notches because they’re sagging on his ass.

I look up in time to meet his eyes. Jonah has caught me and it probably looks like I’m ogling him.

“I thought you were in a rush.” I nod my chin to urge him forward, feeling my cheeks burn.

He tugs on a shopping cart handle, pulling it free from the rack. “Where to, first?”

Good question. One of the luxuries of still living at home is that I don’t have to think about meal planning. Sure, when my friends and I head off for a weekend, we’ll stop at the grocery store and load up a cart with burgers and the like, but Mom takes care of planning food for the week. When was the last time I had to do it?

Have I ever?

The interior of Meyer’s is pure chaos, I realize, as I take in the sea of products that seem to occupy every available square inch of real estate. This is not what I’m used to. On the rare occasion that I have to grab something we’ve run out of, it’s at the local Loblaws, a sleek, stylish store with spacious aisles, polished floors, and tempting produce displays.

As far as aesthetics go, this place sorely pales by comparison, with everything from its flickering low-voltage lights above to the scuffed gray floors and narrow aisles, the shelves crammed with product and topped with brown cases for excess stock. Islands of soft drinks and toilet paper sit on pallets, creating obstacles for carts to navigate around. Everywhere I look, there are oversized SALE signs, but the prices marked can’t possibly be right because ten dollars for a box of Cheerios? Thirteen bucks for a twelve-pack of bottled water? Thirty-two dollars for toilet paper?

The one thing Meyer’s does have, I note with delight, is a small coffee bar next to a glass case of cream pies and icing-laden cupcakes to my right. A whiteboard hangs on the wall above the metal chest-level counter, with a handwritten menu of hot drink options.

I make a beeline to where a young girl hides behind the stacks of paper take-out cups. “I’m desperate for caffeine.” A painful throb flares in my head as if to emphasize my need.

Her near-black eyes do a once-over of me. “What size?”

“The largest you have. A latte, with soy, please.”

“We don’t make those.”

I glance up at the sign, to double-check that I’m not hallucinating. “It says you do.”

“Well yeah. We make lattes. Normal ones.”

Six fifty—American dollars—for a grocery store latte is not normal, I want to say, but I bite my tongue. “It’s the same thing, just made with soy milk.”

“I don’t have soy milk,” she says slowly, as if to help me understand.

I take a deep, calming breath. “Okay, do you have almond milk or cashew or . . .” My words drift with her shaking head.

“So . . . I guess you don’t want the latte, then.” She sounds put out.

“No, I guess I don’t.” I can’t recall the last time I stood in front of a barista—if that’s what I can even call her—and was told that there was no alternative option. I don’t think it’s ever happened.