She knows she's running something of a gauntlet as soon as she steps foot inside the store, but she manages to squash the feeling. She's been in this town five minutes, there's no way she's ready to confront Shea yet and she has no reason to think that the grocery store is where she'll find him.
She's not hungry enough to actually buy groceries for dinner; the plane food was shit but her stomach is too tied up in knots to really think about keeping food down. In all honesty, she probably shouldn't be drinking on a stomach or a state like this, but the idea of being here is throwing her so off kilter already that she can't wait to get home, draw a bath and clutch a wine glass. Tomorrow, she thinks to herself, she'll go and find him. There's no point in putting it off any longer than that, she'll only torture herself by keeping her distance. She has no idea what she's supposed to say to him - sorry I abandoned you the morning after you proposed? Sorry I couldn't bear the thought of being caught up in magic again? There's so much she never told him about those years. Enough that he knows she had a rough time, enough that there was a hold up, but not that they were witches. That much she's never been able to admit, because it sounds absolutely crazy, or it did, until he turned out to be the very same.
She realises she's been standing blankly in the aisle staring at nothing for about five minutes, and forces herself to click back into concentration. The first bottle she sees is the Château-Grillet, because of course it is, the universe hates her. She remembers him opening it that first night, remembers the hopeful smile on his face, like he was worried she was going to chastise him for choosing the wrong wine.
A voice speaks from behind her, and she'd know that voice anywhere, she'd know that voice in her sleep, and she freezes. Every muscle in her body goes rigid and she can't breathe, she swears she's going to pass out then and there because it can't be him, she's not ready, she hasn't planned what to say. Her hand had been halfway to the bottle and she snatches it back as she turns around, hardly daring to look at him. But then she does and oh he hasn't changed a bit, he's everything she remembered and she can feel her heart aching. Four years vanishes into four seconds and she wishes the ground would swallow her so that she'd stop staring at him like a moron.
"Shea." It's all she can bring herself to say. He was always the smooth talker, and that's true now more than ever. Here he is, with his lines about wine and the past and all she can do is stare at him. "It's a good choice," she murmurs finally, and her voice sounds weak to her own ears. She wants to smile at him but she can't, and she's pretty sure that if she weren't so frozen her legs would have given out beneath her. Dieu me soit en aide.
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She's not hungry enough to actually buy groceries for dinner; the plane food was shit but her stomach is too tied up in knots to really think about keeping food down. In all honesty, she probably shouldn't be drinking on a stomach or a state like this, but the idea of being here is throwing her so off kilter already that she can't wait to get home, draw a bath and clutch a wine glass. Tomorrow, she thinks to herself, she'll go and find him. There's no point in putting it off any longer than that, she'll only torture herself by keeping her distance. She has no idea what she's supposed to say to him - sorry I abandoned you the morning after you proposed? Sorry I couldn't bear the thought of being caught up in magic again? There's so much she never told him about those years. Enough that he knows she had a rough time, enough that there was a hold up, but not that they were witches. That much she's never been able to admit, because it sounds absolutely crazy, or it did, until he turned out to be the very same.
She realises she's been standing blankly in the aisle staring at nothing for about five minutes, and forces herself to click back into concentration. The first bottle she sees is the Château-Grillet, because of course it is, the universe hates her. She remembers him opening it that first night, remembers the hopeful smile on his face, like he was worried she was going to chastise him for choosing the wrong wine.
A voice speaks from behind her, and she'd know that voice anywhere, she'd know that voice in her sleep, and she freezes. Every muscle in her body goes rigid and she can't breathe, she swears she's going to pass out then and there because it can't be him, she's not ready, she hasn't planned what to say. Her hand had been halfway to the bottle and she snatches it back as she turns around, hardly daring to look at him. But then she does and oh he hasn't changed a bit, he's everything she remembered and she can feel her heart aching. Four years vanishes into four seconds and she wishes the ground would swallow her so that she'd stop staring at him like a moron.
"Shea." It's all she can bring herself to say. He was always the smooth talker, and that's true now more than ever. Here he is, with his lines about wine and the past and all she can do is stare at him. "It's a good choice," she murmurs finally, and her voice sounds weak to her own ears. She wants to smile at him but she can't, and she's pretty sure that if she weren't so frozen her legs would have given out beneath her. Dieu me soit en aide.