Say I did walk over to Abram right now—how would I go about forcing casual conversation? Should I unzip my track jacket so he can get a clearer view of my protruding clavicles? Flirtatiously release my dry-shampooed hair from my extra-taut runner’s bun, mid-sentence, to indicate how relaxed I’m not in his presence? Smile through the pain I’ve been distracting myself from by taking more than my fair share of ADHD pills?

I start searching for him, pretending I’m the silly-but-lovable blond heroine (addict) in a low-budget indie film I just made up. Working title: Prescription for Love. My character, a type-A smart girl with mom issues and a one-track mind, is completely unaware she’s about to find a cute guy where she least expected, at CVS, while waiting for her refill. Prescription for Love has direct-to-DVD flop written all over it, but there’s a Redbox conveniently located outside the entrance here, should anyone want to rent it after we’re done filming.

There he is, in the candy section: Abram. Deep breath. I’ll do my best to make the next scene more take-charge than outtake, but no promises, being that his father killed my mother a year ago.

2

ABRAM

I’M ALWAYS AMAZED by what I discover at CVS while waiting for my antidepressant to get refilled. Colored pencils, dog treats, socks that’ll improve my blood circulation—all of these items have found a home inside my little red basket.

What I didn’t expect to find here tonight, at midnight especially, was Juliette Flynn, completing a transaction at the drop-off counter. I was staring at her, not-really-examining a bottle of burp-less fish oil, when I blew my cover and dropped the bottle. The noise was loud enough to make the pharmacist jump out of her skin, but not Juliette. She looked up into the shoplifter’s mirror, saw it was me, flexed her angular cheekbones, and didn’t even turn around. The toughest of cookies. I can think of easier things to be consistent about, you know? Eating cookies, for starters—just threw some in my basket and plan on proving that point later with my boys, Ben & Jerry.

Sure, I’m in the market for another friend or two. But now Juliette’s back to avoiding me, so I probably can’t befriend her.

At first I get a kick out of watching her pretend to shop for hair dye, lug around that designer purse, hide her face from wherever she thinks I’m lurking—I’m over here, by the tampons. Then I feel the weight of why she’s keeping me at arm’s length in the first place.

I grab a bag of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups from an end-cap Halloween display and start walking toward the main candy section, in search of a replacement for the Big Red I stole from Mom’s secret candy drawer (the secret’s out). The gum’s on sale … but only for customers who remember their ExtraCare cards, which I have never. I’m reaching for the last remaining pack when I see a second hand that’s much softer-looking than my own, heading in the same direction.

Juliette. Incredibly close. Her alert green cat-eyes are scratching through my lazy blues, making me feel like I’m in trouble for not doing something I honestly forgot about. Her face bears no blemishes, no freckles, no emotions; just smooth, impenetrable surface. I might have that defensive, survival-mode look on my face, too, if I weighed somewhere in the high nineties. She could use a few more trips to the Taco Bell drive-thru.

“Sorry,” she says, pulling her hand back.

“You like Big Red, too?”

“I was getting it for my dad.”

“Same,” I say. “For my mom, I mean.” Except I’m sure the last thing this enigmatic girl wants is for our surviving parents to have something in common, too. I hold out the gum to her. “You go ahead.”

She shakes her head. “I’ll find something else.”

I wait, watch as she selects a box of Hot Tamales and then turns back to me.

“What are those?” Juliette asks, pointing to the circulation socks in my basket. Unclear why I thought they were such a good idea fifteen minutes ago, I hand them over. She takes them, examines the label for a second. “My dad needs these. He never gets out of his swivel chair.”

“My kind of guy.”

She doesn’t smile. I offer her the socks and she accepts, thanks me, and situates them in her left hand with the Hot Tamales. At the same time, the giant purse slung over her right shoulder is looking heavier by the minute.

“Want to put your stuff in my basket until you’re ready to pay?”

“Not really.”

“Cool.”

Her free hand reaches around toward her bun. She contemplates taking her hair down, then decides against it. Then she goes through these motions again and arrives at the same conclusion.

“Sorry, I’m not the best at making conversation,” she says.

I act like this is the craziest self-assessment ever—“What? Noooo, you’re good”—probably overdoing it.

“You have a dog?” she asks.

“Maybe,” I say mysteriously, thinking I’ve missed something. “Why?”

Juliette points to the dog treats I forgot were in my basket.

“Sorry, yeah. A golden retriever.”

Her mood goes from dark to darker before I can do anything about it. I have to hold myself back from making a physical-contact-based gesture that wouldn’t be appreciated.

“Something wrong?” I ask.

“Yes, with my dad … He doesn’t believe in family pets.”

I stop myself from mentioning that my dad had a similar policy, one that my mom and I conveniently forgot about on our way to the dog breeder’s place.

“That’s disappointing,” I say.

“Agree.” Then Juliette’s stomach growls, and I consider offering her a biscuit as a joke, but it wouldn’t be funny.

“Hungry?” I say, because I can’t help myself.

“Not at all.”

I’m amazed by how resolutely she’s able to ignore the growl.

“In that case, I think there’s an animal living inside you.”

Her stomach growls again, louder this time, more like a roar. She still doesn’t flinch.

“I was going to stop by Taco Bell after here, if you, uh…?”

The scrunched-up nose she gives me back indicates she has other plans. Then she tells me she’s jogging home, and it’s my turn to make a scrunchy face.

“Just keep me company for ten minutes,” I bargain, minus any chips. “I’m more fascinating the longer you’re around me. Promise.”

No response.

“Their drive-thru is the fastest in town.”

“Okay,” she says.

“Okay…?”

“Okay, I’ll go to Taco Bell with you for ten minutes.”

The speedy-drive-thru angle is what sold her? Both confused and thrilled by her sudden change of heart, I watch as she power-walks toward the prescription pickup area, hoping this is the beginning of something that has a lot more of her in it. I start walking over to join her, but then change my mind, not really wanting Juliette to watch me sign for a big bag of Paxil. Nope, I’ll just get it tomorrow.

Waiting outside at the Redbox next to the entrance, I look over to my car and remind myself to drive well below the speed limit. The last thing I need is Juliette worrying I’ll take a thirty-five-mph curve going seventy and roll the vehicle three times. Like my dad did that night, a year ago, with Juliette’s mom in his passenger seat.

3

Juliette

MY DAD WOULD never approve of my riding in Abram Morgan’s SUV, so it’s a good thing I have no plans to tell him about it. Abram overcautiously drives through to the fluorescent Taco Bell menu and orders something called a Doritos Locos Supreme. Five of them. I make a bizarre yum noise and tell him I’ll have what he’s having, sounding like a foreign exchange student.

I offer to pay as Abram pulls up to the window, but he insists. I insist back, telling him I have this thing about not owing people money. (Just don’t want to owe him anything.)