I heard him suck in a breath. Maybe it was shock. Maybe he was about to agree with me. Maybe he was reloading his ammo. Either way, I didn't feel like it was my responsibility to be his whipping post.
"I'll see you around, sir."
And I hung up, feeling lighter than I had in years.
Chapter 40 Grace
The Piggly Wiggly in Green Valley had a produce section that rivaled any hipster-perfect farm stand that I'd be able to find in southern California. And my dad didn't want any part of it.
"It won't kill you to try it."
He harrumphed. "I don't like eggplant."
"You don't know if you like it or not. You've never had it before." I set two of the gorgeous aubergine plants in his cart. Immediately, he picked them up and set them back on top of the others. "Dad," I warned, "we're having fresh vegetables with dinner, no matter how many times you put them back."
The rough way he ripped off his hat and scratched the top of his head betrayed his frustration. Thin wisps of salt and pepper hair stuck straight up before he slapped his hat back on and covered them. "Grace Bailey, I am fifty-six years old, and I don't need to eat that damn purple plant if I don't want to."
I rolled my eyes and let him win that round. "Fine, no eggplant. But I'm grilling some zucchini."
My dad groaned, drawing the attention of two ladies pushing a cart next to us.
"Like dealing with a child," I muttered under my breath.
"I heard that," he said.
"I meant for you to hear it." But my cheeks felt hot, because I hadn't. It seemed like such a good idea, as I helped Aunt Fran shuck some corn earlier and listened to her cluck about how the Buchanan men had a genetic predisposition against healthy eating. Not that I was in any position to judge. Every single item that I'd purchased from Donner Bakery was gone within the hour of Grady returning home.
The sugar felt amazing going in, with its false rush of happiness and sweetness. But the crash came about two hours later, and oh what a spectacular crash it was. I tossed and turned the whole night, blaming it on the baked goods and not at all on the sudden appearance of Tucker Haywood at the bakery.
And that crash continued the next morning, which made no biological sense, but whatever. Aunt Fran finally came into the garage apartment in the afternoon, dragging me bodily into the kitchen to help her. One day of moping is one day wasted, she'd told me. It won't make you feel better, and it won't fix a single solitary thing. Hence the corn shucking, and genius idea to take my dad grocery shopping for the healthy dinner that I was determined to make for us.
Grilling chicken was healthy cooking for dummies. And in theory, I felt like I could manage a few brightly colored sides, the kind that were chock full of vitamins and minerals and wouldn't cause a zombie-inducing sugar and carb crash.
I pulled the crumpled shopping list out of the back pocket of my shorts. My finger trailed down the side of the paper while I mentally ticked off the items we already had in the cart. "Pops, can you go grab a bottle of Italian dressing?"
He grunted. "It better not be going on some boring lettuce."
"Dad …"
He held up his hands. "Fine, fine. Italian dressing, coming up."
While he made his way back to find the dressing, I picked out a few of the larger zucchini, all of them a beautiful shade of green, the lights overhead shining off the smooth surface. There, I thought, setting them decisively into a produce bag. No more moping.
Good decisions were abounding, in healthy eating, and quality time spent with Dad, and no worrying about Tucker or where he was, or what he was doing, because it was none of my freaking business what he did or who was talking to, or who he might be saving from choking to death on a croissant.
I sighed. Such a pathetic sound it was too, as I thought about the concerned look on his face.
Why did he have to be so handsome? And good? He seemed like such a good person.
He probably helped little old ladies cross the road. Definitely climbed ladders to pull kittens out of trees.
Lost in the thought of Tucker holding a tiny gray kitten in those big, big arms, I picked up a butternut squash and tried to imagine anything else.
"I heard that Haywood boy just went and dumped her," someone said behind me.
I jumped, the squash fumbled dangerously in my hands, and I clutched it to my chest so it didn't meet an untimely and messy doom on the floor of the Piggly Wiggly. As I set it down, very, very carefully, I slowed my movements so that I could strain to hear what she said next.
"No," her friend gasped quietly. "Those two have been together forever."
"Mmmhmmm, since they were seventeen."
My mind raced, another dangerous fumbling that I couldn't stop. He'd broken up with her?
The two women pushed their carts in my direction, and I picked up a tomato and brought it to my nose. Did people smell tomatoes?
"And you're sure he did the breaking?"
A halting breath caught in my throat as I waited for her to answer. I couldn't pinpoint why, but it felt very important to hear the
