Credence

I glance around for Noah again. “Um, it’s the only prescription I have with them.”

He raises his eyes, laughing a little. “I just need the name, so I know what to confirm with them.”

I tap my foot. “Tri-Sprintec,” I answer quickly without moving my lips.

He nods as if he’s never had an overly nosy and playful cousin who would just love to know why I’m on birth control and why-ever would I need it, locked on a mountain all winter without access to men.

I watch him make the call, enter things on the computer, and finally hang up.

He looks over at me. “Give me ten minutes,” he says before he turns around to head into the back.

I’m tempted to ask him to fill several months in advance, but I don’t know yet if I’m staying, so if I need more to get me through the winter, I’ll just come back. With the truck and without Noah next time.

Honestly, I don’t even need to be on the pill, much less on it all winter, but it’s easier to stay on the routine I’ve been on since I was fourteen than to stop and have to start again.

I move through the store, finding a few things on my list here and there. Some snacks I like, more sunscreen, the multi-vitamins I forgot, and some candles. I grab a spare set of ear buds, some pens and paper, and I find the ramen in the last aisle. It’s the cheap forty-seven-cent stuff, but I want it.

“Hey,” a female voice says behind me.

I turn, seeing a woman about my age staring at me.

“Hi,” I say back. But I retreat a step, because she’s close.

She’s in tight jeans, work boots, and has long, dark hair hanging down in loose curls. Her hands are tucked into a fitted camo sweatshirt, and her full red lips are slightly pursed.

“Nice hat,” she says.

Is it? I don’t think I even read what it said before Noah gave it to me, and I put it on. It’s not new, though.

“Thank you.”

Her red lips are tight and her eyes narrow on me. Does she know me? I haven’t met anyone yet.

I continue around her, moving down the aisle.

“Are you one of the racers’ girlfriends?” she inquires, following me as I walk.

I glance at her as I pick up a loofah and some body wash. Racers’ girlfriends?

Oh, right. There’s a Motocross scene up here. Not sure why she would think that has anything to do with me.

“No. Sorry.”

I continue down the aisle, but she keeps trailing me.

“Then where did you get that hat?”

My hat… I stop and turn my head toward her, opening my mouth to answer, but then I close it again. Have I done something wrong? Who is she?

“If you’re not with Motocross,” she asks again, “then how’d you get that swag?”

“Someone gave it to me.” I reply tightly and move up to the register, grabbing a bag of coffee beans on my way. “Is there a problem?”

“Just askin’,” she replies. “You don’t live here, do you?”

I almost snort. She sounds so hopeful.

I keep my mouth shut, though. I’m not sure if this is a small-town thing, but where I’m from we don’t dole out personal information just because someone is an uncontrollable, nosy-parker. She might think I’m rude, but in L.A., we call it “not getting robbed, raped, or killed.”