Abby
“s**t!” I call out, tossing the soggy spinach into the trash. “Wet. All of it.”
My ingredients got wet from the mini-flood—almost all of them, at least. I’ll have to buy new ingredients, and in this city, driving is slower than walking. Before Anton or John can utter a word, I’m already bolting out of the restaurant and down the street.
The grocery store is a short sprint away, and I’m moving faster than I ever thought possible. Before I know it, the automatic doors are sliding open. I grab a basket and make a beeline for the vegetables first.
“Excuse me,” I murmur as I sidestep a little old lady contemplating the avocados with a furrowed brow. I’m weaving through the aisles, my list mental, each item being checked off with a physical counterpart landing in the basket. Olive oil,
