Read Online Thunder Running by Rebecca Crowley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rebecca Crowley
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Dillons and a Walmart in Meridian if youâd rather drive into town. The prices arenât that different.âChance had shrugged the night before when she announced her plan to make her first solo trip on post.
But she was resolute. Although they were still sleeping separately and hadnât kissed again, every day they were taking baby steps toward a full-fledged relationship. Chance touched her now, squeezing her knee when she joined him on the couch or leaving his hand on her back as he looked over her shoulder at her improving culinary efforts. In turn she was trying to calm her temper, to give him the benefit of the doubt, to hold open the door her self-defensive instincts longed to slam shut whenever he paid her a compliment or said something so unexpectedly tender her heart hammered in her chest.
She was going to become the supportive army wife he deserved if it killed her. And from the height of the heels on the woman preceding her into the commissary, it very well might.
Tara paused inside the door to let her eyes adjust to the fluorescent-lit interior, which was much brighter than the overcast November day outside. She took in her surroundings, noting with relief that apart from the above-average numbers of shoppers in ACUs, Chance was right. The commissary was nothing more exciting than a run-of-the-mill grocery store.
She picked up a plastic basket and unfolded her shopping list. Although Chance insisted she didnât need to cookâand probably preferred she didnât, to be honestâshe hoped todayâs trip would simultaneously relieve him of the errand and allow her to get what she needed for a recipe she knew she could handle, rather than try to mimic his ability to concoct a delicious meal out of whatever odd ingredients he had hanging around.
She started in the produce section, choosing carrots and potatoes and a bagged side salad. She moved onto meat, adding mince beef and chicken breasts to her basket, then turned into the canned goods aisle. She was constantly self-conscious, certain the women pushing carts, scolding children, smiling as they reached around her for a tin of kidney beans were judging her or at least identifying her difference. Could they tell this was her first trip to the commissary? Did they notice that her so-called wedding ring was a thirty-dollar piece of crap from a casino gift store? Would they convene at some secret army wivesâ tea later that afternoon and speculate about the racially ambiguous piece of trailer trash whoâd wandered onto their post? Would they whisper to their husbands that Sergeant McKinley had gone too far this time, and something had to be done?
She recalled Chanceâs frown as sheâd explained her theory that army wives were like a mean girlsâ sorority, poised to viciously exclude anyone who didnât measure up to their expectations.
âDonât believe everything you see on TV,â heâd replied. âArmy wives are as different from each other as soldiers. Some of them have full-time jobs, some stay home to raise their kids, hell, some are probably finishing PhDs while they PCS all over the country. And you know there are army husbands too, right? I canât see them taking much interest in your choice of lipstick color.â
On a deep, rational level she knew he was right, but it was buried so far under layer after layer of paranoid insecurity that she struggled to see her fellow shoppers as normal people instead of members of a vast military-spouse conspiracy.
Then again, she reasoned as she selected a bag of frozen peas, she had some weird hang-ups about normal grocery stores too. For years her bartending shifts meant she tended to shop at twenty-four-hour superstores at unsociable hours, but on the rare occasions she stopped in during the day she approached the cashiers with irrational trepidation. The bleep of the scanner always brought her back to the arguments her father would have in
But she was resolute. Although they were still sleeping separately and hadnât kissed again, every day they were taking baby steps toward a full-fledged relationship. Chance touched her now, squeezing her knee when she joined him on the couch or leaving his hand on her back as he looked over her shoulder at her improving culinary efforts. In turn she was trying to calm her temper, to give him the benefit of the doubt, to hold open the door her self-defensive instincts longed to slam shut whenever he paid her a compliment or said something so unexpectedly tender her heart hammered in her chest.
She was going to become the supportive army wife he deserved if it killed her. And from the height of the heels on the woman preceding her into the commissary, it very well might.
Tara paused inside the door to let her eyes adjust to the fluorescent-lit interior, which was much brighter than the overcast November day outside. She took in her surroundings, noting with relief that apart from the above-average numbers of shoppers in ACUs, Chance was right. The commissary was nothing more exciting than a run-of-the-mill grocery store.
She picked up a plastic basket and unfolded her shopping list. Although Chance insisted she didnât need to cookâand probably preferred she didnât, to be honestâshe hoped todayâs trip would simultaneously relieve him of the errand and allow her to get what she needed for a recipe she knew she could handle, rather than try to mimic his ability to concoct a delicious meal out of whatever odd ingredients he had hanging around.
She started in the produce section, choosing carrots and potatoes and a bagged side salad. She moved onto meat, adding mince beef and chicken breasts to her basket, then turned into the canned goods aisle. She was constantly self-conscious, certain the women pushing carts, scolding children, smiling as they reached around her for a tin of kidney beans were judging her or at least identifying her difference. Could they tell this was her first trip to the commissary? Did they notice that her so-called wedding ring was a thirty-dollar piece of crap from a casino gift store? Would they convene at some secret army wivesâ tea later that afternoon and speculate about the racially ambiguous piece of trailer trash whoâd wandered onto their post? Would they whisper to their husbands that Sergeant McKinley had gone too far this time, and something had to be done?
She recalled Chanceâs frown as sheâd explained her theory that army wives were like a mean girlsâ sorority, poised to viciously exclude anyone who didnât measure up to their expectations.
âDonât believe everything you see on TV,â heâd replied. âArmy wives are as different from each other as soldiers. Some of them have full-time jobs, some stay home to raise their kids, hell, some are probably finishing PhDs while they PCS all over the country. And you know there are army husbands too, right? I canât see them taking much interest in your choice of lipstick color.â
On a deep, rational level she knew he was right, but it was buried so far under layer after layer of paranoid insecurity that she struggled to see her fellow shoppers as normal people instead of members of a vast military-spouse conspiracy.
Then again, she reasoned as she selected a bag of frozen peas, she had some weird hang-ups about normal grocery stores too. For years her bartending shifts meant she tended to shop at twenty-four-hour superstores at unsociable hours, but on the rare occasions she stopped in during the day she approached the cashiers with irrational trepidation. The bleep of the scanner always brought her back to the arguments her father would have in
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