Chapter 9: Ghosts in the Cart

Sunday Staples

We always shopped on Sundays.

Same store. Same route. Same cart—mine to push, hers to fill. She’d toss in whatever she wanted and act like it was my idea to buy it.

This week, it started with coconut milk.

“Thought we hated this,” I said, watching her drop a can into the cart.

She shrugged. “Tastes different when I make it.”

“Or when your mother’s not watching?”

She rolled her eyes. “Coño, Eli. Just push.”

I smirked but obeyed. I always obeyed.

The Aisles Between Us

We moved through produce like a couple. Chose bananas like they were a joint investment. Bickered over cereal brands like we’d been married a decade.

But something was off today.

Carla was quieter. Not cold. Just ... pulled back. Like she was doing the shopping and something else at the same time.

Planning. Packing. Rehearsing conversations I wasn’t part of.

At the dairy case, I said, “You okay?”

She nodded too fast. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“The wedding.”

Right. The wedding in the DR. The one she’d mentioned a few times without eye contact.

Cart Static

“How long are you gone?” I asked casually, watching her inspect cheese like it held answers.

“Five days. Maybe six if I stay with Tía after.”

I nodded. “Sounds good.”

She turned to me, one brow raised. “You gonna be okay without your sparring partner?”

I played it cool. “Might finally get a bruise to heal.”

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

We moved on.

Backfire

At checkout, she teased me about the frozen pizza I added.

“Thought we were meal prepping,” she said.

“We are. For after pizza.”

She laughed. Real this time. And for a second, everything felt normal.

But then she glanced at her phone.

At the flight confirmation.

And just like that, the ghost was back in the cart. The thing I couldn’t name but couldn’t stop feeling.

Distance. Change. Her, slipping out of our routine and into something else.

Unafraid to Tease, Afraid to Feel

As we unloaded groceries into her trunk, I said, “Text me when you land.”

She gave me a look. “I’m not going to the moon.”

“Still.”

“Dios mío, Eli. You’re worse than my mother.”

I leaned on the edge of the cart. “Maybe I just like having you around.”

That stopped her.

Just for a second.

Then she smiled—soft, almost shy. “You’ll survive. Barely.”

I watched her drive off and realized:

I didn’t want to survive without her.

I wanted her here.

And I didn’t know what to do with that.