I had no idea what to make of this guy.
Was he being sarcastic or serious? Was he handsome or generic? Was he kind to help or too pushy? Was he flirting with me or being a pain? Had he already won me over, or did I still have a choice?
Finally I circled back to: “Fine. Just … don’t help me.”
His expression shifted to wry. “I’m getting the sense that you don’t want me to help you.”
But I played it straight. “That’s correct.”
Then before I could lose any more ground, I turned to the owner at the counter—still chatting away with her friend—and stage-whispered, “I’ll be back in five with my purse.”
Then I zipped out the door.
Case closed.
* * *
I WAS WAITING at the crosswalk for the light to change when I turned back to see the grocery store guy walking out with a paper bag that looked suspiciously like it might have three very cheap wine bottles and some dog tacos in it.
I stared at him until he saw me.
Then he gave me a big unapologetic ya got me smile.
Fine. I had my answers: Yes.
When he arrived next to me to wait for the same crosswalk, I kept my gaze straight ahead, but said, like we were spies or something, “Is that bag full of what I think it’s full of?”
He didn’t turn my way, either. “Do you think it’s full of human kindness?”
“I think it’s full of unwanted help.”
He looked down to examine the inside of the bag. “Or maybe I just really, really love … six-dollar wine.”
“And dog treats,” I said, glancing his way.
I could see the sides of his eyes crinkle up at that.
“Fine,” I said, accepting my defeat and holding out my arms for the bag.
But he shook his head. “I got it.”
“Are you going to be stubborn about this, too?”
“I think the word you’re looking for is chivalrous.”
“Is it?” I said, tilting my head.
Then, as if the question had answered itself, I held my arms out for the bag again.
“Why should I give this to you?” he asked.
“Because you got what you wanted last time,” I said, tilting my head back toward the store, “and now it’s my turn.”
He considered that.
So I added, “It’s only fair.”
He nodded at that, and then, like he’d been totally reasonable all along, he turned, stepped closer, and released the bag into my arms.
“Thank you,” I said when I had possession.
The light had turned, and the crowd around us was moving into the street. As I started to move with it, I looked down to check the bag’s contents, and I saw a bouquet of white gerbera daisies. I started to turn to him next to me, but he wasn’t there—and when I spun back, he was still at the curb looking down at his phone like maybe he’d stopped for a text.
“Hey!” I called from the middle of the street. “You forgot your flowers!”
But he looked up and shook his head. “Those are for you.”
I didn’t fight him. It was his turn, after all.
If I’d known what was going to happen next, I might have handled that moment differently. I might have kept arguing just so we could keep talking. Or I might have asked him his name so I’d have some way of remembering him—so that he wouldn’t just remain, in my memory after that, the Grocery Store Guy who got away.
Of course, if I’d known what would happen next, I would never have stepped into the street in the first place.
But I didn’t know. The same way none of us ever know. The same way we all just move through the world on guesswork and hope.
Instead, I just shrugged, like, Okay, and then turned and kept walking—noting that he was the first man I’d been attracted to in all the months since my breakup, and half hoping he would jog to catch up with me in a minute or two.
But that’s not what happened next.
Next, I froze right there in the crosswalk, my arms still hugging my bag of wine.
And I don’t remember anything after that.
Two
I WOKE UP in the hospital with my evil stepmother Lucinda by my bed.
And you know it was bad if Lucinda showed up.
I opened my eyes, and I saw one of my least favorite people on the planet leaning forward, elbows on knees, peering over the bed rail, flaring her nostrils and staring at me like she’d never seen me before.
“What happened?” was all I could think of to say.
At that, Lucinda went into full gossip mode, filling me in on the details as if she were talking to a random neighbor—and I can’t tell you how weird it was to be getting the story of my life from the person who had ruined it.
Anyhoo.
Apparently, I’d had what they call a nonconvulsive seizure, right there in the middle of the crosswalk in front of my building. I froze into an empty stare in the street and was almost mowed down by a Volkswagen Beetle before a mysterious Good Samaritan shoved me to the curb at the last second and saved my life.
Next, after not getting run over, I passed out on the sidewalk in front of my building.
The Good Samaritan then called 911 and handed me off to the paramedics when they arrived. According to the nurse at the hospital, I was semiconscious when they wheeled me in and was asking everyone to find my father—though that’s another thing I don’t remember.
I really must have been out of it to ask for my dad. Of all people. A person I would never voluntarily turn to in need.
But over and over, apparently, I asked for him, saying his name. Which the nurses recognized. Because my dad was, to be honest, a bit of a celebrity surgeon.
The staff called his office, according to that same nurse, but he was “unavailable.”
Which is how Lucinda wound up here.
She was absolutely the last person I’d want at my bedside—besides perhaps her daughter. Honestly, I’d rather have woken up to Miranda Priestly. Or Mommie Dearest. Or Ursula from The Little Mermaid.
And from the looks of those nostrils of hers, Lucinda wasn’t too thrilled to be seeing me, either.
Still, she kind of liked the drama.
Her tone was a little bit incredulous as she brought me up to speed, like how I could’ve chosen the crosswalk of a busy street, of all places, to have that nonconvulsive seizure was beyond her. “If that Good Samaritan hadn’t saved you, you’d be flat as a pancake right now.” She paused and tilted her head, like she might be picturing that. “I was at my Whining & Wine-ing group when they called, but it’s okay. It’s fine. Of course I dropped everything and came here right away.”
Her tone made me wonder if that was true. Like maybe she’d tossed back one last glass of chardonnay.
I shook my baffled head again, like, Wait. “What happened?”
She leaned in a little, like I hadn’t been paying attention. “You almost died in the road.”
“But what caused the seizure?” I asked at last, my wits starting to come back.
“They don’t know. Could even just be dehydration. But they want to do an MRI before they release you. Looks like you’ll have to stay overnight.”
And then, quickly, to snuff out even the possibility that I might ask her to stay—which I would absolutely never do—she added, “I’ll be back first thing in the morning.”