For the first full minute he catches sight of her, Coop is sure that she's a ghost. A ghost or some figment of imagination or maybe this is one of those dreams that start out as a mundane trip to the grocery store and quickly degenerates into some horrible nightmare because if there's one person in this world he'd never pictured stepping foot in Siren Cove, it's her.
He's got a shopping cart full of essentials--toilet paper, protein powder, fruits and veggies, skim milk, beer--but he nearly crashes into some asshole who clearly hadn't been looking where he was going and gives Coop a totally unwarranted nasty look, but Coop can't really bring himself to give a shit, much less apologize. He realizes he's being a little creepy, but he tails her to the Wines & Spirits aisle, and he doesn't need to make sure it's her because he knows. He knows the sway of her hips as she walks, the bounce of her hair, the dip in her back and the curves of her cheeks. He'd spent practically every waking moment getting to know every aspect of what makes Sylvie Sylvie when they'd been together, and he'd been able to bury enough of it over the last four years but now, it's like no time has passed at all.
She hasn't changed much, at least not in a physical sense, and the same could be said of him. He's a little tanner now, maybe, a little scruffier and bulkier, but he knows that she wouldn't have to think twice to know it's him if she turns around right now. His heart's beating in his chest, and it's got to be loud enough for everyone in this store to hear, but it doesn't seem to bother anyone but him. He wants to ditch the cart and leave the store right now, turn his back on her and forget he'd ever seen her, forget he'd ever fucking met her because she'd messed him up in so many ways that he doesn't even know what could every make up for it or what possible explanation she could have for coming here.
But he doesn't turn around, he doesn't turn his back on her, he doesn't leave. He stays, she's the only person who could ever have made him stay, and he hates so much that it's apparently still true. He parks the cart at the end of the aisle, empty except for her, and takes a deep breath to steel himself before rolling his shoulders back and approaching her.
"If you're looking for a recommendation, I'd go with the Château-Grillet," he says, crossing his arms over his chest so tightly that he's almost hugging himself and pressing his lips into a thin line. Château-Grillet had been the first bottle of wine they'd shared together, he'd bought it on their first date at La Coupole in Paris to impress her, and the memory of how unbelievably beautiful she'd been that night and how shamefully overjoyed he'd been every time he'd made her laugh or smile sends a pang through his chest.
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He's got a shopping cart full of essentials--toilet paper, protein powder, fruits and veggies, skim milk, beer--but he nearly crashes into some asshole who clearly hadn't been looking where he was going and gives Coop a totally unwarranted nasty look, but Coop can't really bring himself to give a shit, much less apologize. He realizes he's being a little creepy, but he tails her to the Wines & Spirits aisle, and he doesn't need to make sure it's her because he knows. He knows the sway of her hips as she walks, the bounce of her hair, the dip in her back and the curves of her cheeks. He'd spent practically every waking moment getting to know every aspect of what makes Sylvie Sylvie when they'd been together, and he'd been able to bury enough of it over the last four years but now, it's like no time has passed at all.
She hasn't changed much, at least not in a physical sense, and the same could be said of him. He's a little tanner now, maybe, a little scruffier and bulkier, but he knows that she wouldn't have to think twice to know it's him if she turns around right now. His heart's beating in his chest, and it's got to be loud enough for everyone in this store to hear, but it doesn't seem to bother anyone but him. He wants to ditch the cart and leave the store right now, turn his back on her and forget he'd ever seen her, forget he'd ever fucking met her because she'd messed him up in so many ways that he doesn't even know what could every make up for it or what possible explanation she could have for coming here.
But he doesn't turn around, he doesn't turn his back on her, he doesn't leave. He stays, she's the only person who could ever have made him stay, and he hates so much that it's apparently still true. He parks the cart at the end of the aisle, empty except for her, and takes a deep breath to steel himself before rolling his shoulders back and approaching her.
"If you're looking for a recommendation, I'd go with the Château-Grillet," he says, crossing his arms over his chest so tightly that he's almost hugging himself and pressing his lips into a thin line. Château-Grillet had been the first bottle of wine they'd shared together, he'd bought it on their first date at La Coupole in Paris to impress her, and the memory of how unbelievably beautiful she'd been that night and how shamefully overjoyed he'd been every time he'd made her laugh or smile sends a pang through his chest.