My dad’s idea of "bonding ti" has always been about as effective as a Band-Aid on a gunshot wound.
So, naturally, after our not-so-warm reunion, he decided to toss and Elena into the sa car and send us to the grocery store "to catch up."
No context. No instructions. Just a barked, "You two go get groceries, I’m on a conference call," before he locked himself in his office like the emotionally unavailable troll he’s always been.
Which is how I ended up in the passenger seat of a sky-blue Tesla, with Elena driving like she just discovered the accelerator had feelings.
"I hate this car," she muttered, taking a left turn a little too dramatically. "It’s too quiet. It feels like I’m gliding into death."
I gripped the armrest. "Have you considered using the brake? It’s free."
She rolled her eyes. "Relax. I only drive like this when I’m nervous."
"Oh good," I said. "That’s comforting."
She gave a sideways glance and grinned. "You make it very easy to be nervous, you know."
"I barely said anything."
"Exactly."
I looked out the window before I could respond. She had this way of throwing off my balance — all sarcasm and smirks and legs that made it hard to think. Not that I was thinking about her legs. Obviously.
When we got to the grocery store, she parked diagonally across two spots.
"You know there are lines for a reason," I said, climbing out.
"I reject your rules," she replied, tossing her hair like a villain in a teen drama.
Inside, it started off normal. Milk, eggs (which she swore this ti wouldn’t be weaponized), bread, coffee. I even found the cereal I liked. For a mont, it almost felt like we were just two normal people grocery shopping together.
Until we reached the... condint aisle.
"Okay," she said, squinting at a shelf like it had offended her. "Why are there sixteen types of mustard?"
"Capitalism."
She picked up one jar and read the label aloud: "’Artisan Stone-Ground Honey Dijon Infused with Wild Herbs.’"
"Sounds like it needs a personality quiz and a therapist."
She laughed — a full, warm sound that made an older woman pushing a cart glance at us and smile.
And for a split second, I had this stupid flash in my head — like we were dating. Like we were a real couple in public, making jokes about mustard.
I shook it off.
Nope. She’s your dad’s wife. Your stepmom. You’re going to hell just for having that thought.
"I don’t even like mustard," she said, snapping the jar back onto the shelf like she was angry at it.
"Then why are we here?"
"I just like judging things I don’t understand."
"Sounds healthy."
She grinned. "It’s either that or therapy. And therapy’s expensive."
We kept moving. Bananas. Pasta. Soap. A short but heated debate about which brand of toilet paper was "less evil." Then ca the mont that broke : she picked up a bag of mini marshmallows and said with absolute seriousness, "These are for emotional ergencies."
"Are you five?"
"No, I’m adaptable."
"You’re a nace."
"You’re dramatic."
"I’m not the one buying sugar pillows like they’re Xanax."
"Maybe I like soft things."
I paused. She had this look — half playful, half sothing I couldn’t quite place. Sad? Vulnerable? I didn’t get to analyze it, because a second later, she tossed the marshmallows into the cart and turned away.
"I used to make these with my sister," she said casually, staring at a shelf of canned beans like they held the aning of life. "Rice krispie treats. Marshmallows everywhere. We’d always burn them. The house slled like singed sugar for days."
I didn’t say anything. Partly because I didn’t know what to say, and partly because I was busy realizing I didn’t know anything about her. Like, at all.
She always had a joke. A distraction. A way to steer the conversation into chaos before anything got too real.
Elena, I was learning, was the human equivalent of glitter and firecrackers: distracting, dazzling, and kind of dangerous if you stared too long.
We made it to checkout without incident — mostly. There was a minor scene involving an angry toddler and a squeaky cart wheel, which Elena narrated like it was a National Geographic docuntary. She even did the British accent.
By the ti we got back to the car, we were both carrying armfuls of reusable bags and laughing about the fact that she accidentally bought a family-sized bottle of ranch dressing without realizing it was the size of a toddler.
"You’re going to drown in this stuff," I said, tossing it into the backseat.
"I hope so," she said cheerfully. "That way my tombstone can say ’Loving wife, tragically ranch-marinated.’"
"That’s actually poetic."
"You can deliver the eulogy."
"Absolutely not."
"C’mon, you can cry a little. Just one emotional tear."
"I haven’t cried since 2016."
"Ohhh," she said, drawing out the sound like she’d just discovered my deepest secret. "A soft boy with trauma. I knew it."
I slamd the car door. "Drive, nace."
She laughed, and I hated that I liked it.
Back at the house, my dad was still in his office, probably yelling at soone over a Bluetooth call about quarterly projections and how emotions are a sign of weakness. Typical.
Elena and I unpacked groceries in silence for a few minutes — the kind of silence that wasn’t awkward exactly, but definitely buzzing with... sothing.
I put the ranch dressing in the fridge. She handed the marshmallows without a word and then leaned against the counter, watching .
"So," she said, casual but curious. "What’s your plan this sumr?"
"Besides surviving the shock of your existence?"
She stuck her tongue out at .
"I don’t know," I said honestly. "I was gonna work at that bookstore near campus, do so writing, avoid emotional contact."
"Wow," she said. "You and Victor are more alike than I thought."
I made a face. "Don’t say that."
She smirked. "Relax. You still blink like a human."
I leaned on the opposite counter. "What about you? What’s your plan?"
"Besides driving you insane?"
"Yeah."
She shrugged. "I was gonna start a yoga class. Maybe volunteer at the animal shelter. Cry over ranch dressing. The usual."
I couldn’t help it — I laughed again.
And then she smiled at — not the sarcastic smirk, not the teasing grin. A real smile. Soft. Unexpected.
And that stupid flicker hit again, low in my stomach.
This was going to be a problem.
I needed space. A plan. A spiritual exorcism.
But instead, I said, "We should make those rice krispie things soti."
Her face lit up like I’d just offered to take her to Disneyland.
"Really?"
"Yeah."
She held up the marshmallows and grinned. "It’s a date."
Then her eyes widened slightly. "I an—not a date-date. Just—"
"Yeah, I know," I said too quickly. "Totally. Not a date. Obviously."
The air in the kitchen suddenly felt like it was holding its breath.
Then she laughed it off, and I pretended to do the sa, and we went back to organizing groceries like we hadn’t just accidentally flirted over marshmallows.
That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling fan, trying to remind myself of three key facts:
Elena is my stepmother.
I live under the sa roof as her.
I am definitely, absolutely, completely screwed.
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