Do you still go to hell if you didn’t know it was in your pocket? I’m not the type of man to walk out of a store with the king size Kit Kat bar my girlfriend told me to “hang on to.” I guess I can’t really call myself any type of man until I turn eighteen. But I want to be a man now, and one with principles.
We went in without a basket. We were only getting one thing. But then she got a wild look in her eye and filled up my arms with makeups and chocolates and cheap face masks for her. Of course I slipped the candy into my pocket once my hands were full. Of course I forgot about it.
“I want to go give it back,” I tell her while the car is still in the parking lot. My hands are already on the steering wheel. “I’ll just go in and say I didn’t know it was in my pocket.”
“Are you serious?” she asks.
“I’m just gonna walk back into the store and give it back.”
“Fuck that, give it to me.” She holds out her hand and when I don’t move, plunges her hand into my pocket and pulls out the Kit Kat. She fumbles with the wrapper in the passenger seat even though there’s a whole bag of Swedish Fish already open and spilling out and covering the little box in her lap. The box isn’t too dissimilar in size from a chocolate bar. Since it’s half covered in candy, I take a moment and pretend that’s really all it is. She uses the same moment to tear the Kit Kat wrapper all the way down to the opposite end of the bar.
“Don’t do that,” I tell her, but I don’t take my hands off the steering wheel.
She sinks her teeth into the corner, catching each of the chocolate sticks in her mouth at once. I’ve seen her eat Kit Kats much more carefully before. Everyone knows you have to break the segments off, but she doesn’t look like she cares.
“I wanted to give it back.”
“To CVS?” she says through a mouth full of chocolate. “They’d probably lawsuit the fuck out of you.”
Lawsuit isn’t a verb but I don’t tell her that as she tears off another lawless chunk of Kit Kat.
“I wish you hadn’t made me spend all that money,” I say, white-knuckling the steering wheel. “We should be saving money.”
“Shut up,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “What monument difference is it going to make in our life if you spend twenty bucks at the drug store. None.”
She says our life like it’s nothing and I don’t know how to feel about it. Like everything that is hers is mine and vice versa. She’s finishing off the Kit Kat I thought I had a right to, that I wanted to do the right thing with.
“I have to pee now,” she says, popping a Swedish Fish into her mouth. She looks at me as she chews, and I see the angle of shyness against her bravado. “Can we go to your house?” she asks.
“Yeah. Of course.” I’ll have to take a hand off the steering wheel to start the car, so I give it one more second. Like I could still walk back into CVS. “I really wish you would have let me give that candy back.”
“Shut. Up.”
I unhinge my hand and turn the key in my dad’s old car so we can putter out of the parking lot and back to my townhouse where we made the mistake the first time. I want to be honest with her about what I’m thinking, so I ask.
“Do you still go to hell if you didn’t know it was in your pocket?”
“Jesus,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “You think the candy bar will do it? Buddy, have I got news for you.”
“It was an accident.”
She squints her eyes at me. “Yeah.”
We drive in silence. She draws the empty Kit Kat wrapper over her little box to hide the label, and pretends to take a bite out of it as I pull into my driveway.
“My dad will get upset if you’re eating candy when you come in,” I mumble to her as I put the old car in park. “He doesn’t like me eating sugar early in the day.”
“Oh, I can’t fucking believe this,” she groans. “He says one word about it and I pull the wrapper right off so he can see.”
My eyes go wide at her. “You can’t!”
She looks like she’s going to make fun of me before she really sees my face, and then right away she softens into the kind of girl I could ignore all my principles for. “I’m not going to show anyone,” she says. “I promise. Not until we know.”
We do our best to smile at each other through the heaviness of the silent car.
“I’m sorry about the candy,” I tell her. “I just wanted to do the right thing. The kind of thing… someone could look up to.”
She watches me with half-closed eyes. Doesn’t get the last word for once. Instead she just gets out of the car and walks towards the house without me, CVS bag in one hand and fake Kit Kat in the other. When she gets to the garage she turns around and holds out a hand to me through the July sunlight. I get out of the car and take it, so we’ll go to hell together.
We went in without a basket. We were only getting one thing. But then she got a wild look in her eye and filled up my arms with makeups and chocolates and cheap face masks for her. Of course I slipped the candy into my pocket once my hands were full. Of course I forgot about it.
“I want to go give it back,” I tell her while the car is still in the parking lot. My hands are already on the steering wheel. “I’ll just go in and say I didn’t know it was in my pocket.”
“Are you serious?” she asks.
“I’m just gonna walk back into the store and give it back.”
“Fuck that, give it to me.” She holds out her hand and when I don’t move, plunges her hand into my pocket and pulls out the Kit Kat. She fumbles with the wrapper in the passenger seat even though there’s a whole bag of Swedish Fish already open and spilling out and covering the little box in her lap. The box isn’t too dissimilar in size from a chocolate bar. Since it’s half covered in candy, I take a moment and pretend that’s really all it is. She uses the same moment to tear the Kit Kat wrapper all the way down to the opposite end of the bar.
“Don’t do that,” I tell her, but I don’t take my hands off the steering wheel.
She sinks her teeth into the corner, catching each of the chocolate sticks in her mouth at once. I’ve seen her eat Kit Kats much more carefully before. Everyone knows you have to break the segments off, but she doesn’t look like she cares.
“I wanted to give it back.”
“To CVS?” she says through a mouth full of chocolate. “They’d probably lawsuit the fuck out of you.”
Lawsuit isn’t a verb but I don’t tell her that as she tears off another lawless chunk of Kit Kat.
“I wish you hadn’t made me spend all that money,” I say, white-knuckling the steering wheel. “We should be saving money.”
“Shut up,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “What monument difference is it going to make in our life if you spend twenty bucks at the drug store. None.”
She says our life like it’s nothing and I don’t know how to feel about it. Like everything that is hers is mine and vice versa. She’s finishing off the Kit Kat I thought I had a right to, that I wanted to do the right thing with.
“I have to pee now,” she says, popping a Swedish Fish into her mouth. She looks at me as she chews, and I see the angle of shyness against her bravado. “Can we go to your house?” she asks.
“Yeah. Of course.” I’ll have to take a hand off the steering wheel to start the car, so I give it one more second. Like I could still walk back into CVS. “I really wish you would have let me give that candy back.”
“Shut. Up.”
I unhinge my hand and turn the key in my dad’s old car so we can putter out of the parking lot and back to my townhouse where we made the mistake the first time. I want to be honest with her about what I’m thinking, so I ask.
“Do you still go to hell if you didn’t know it was in your pocket?”
“Jesus,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “You think the candy bar will do it? Buddy, have I got news for you.”
“It was an accident.”
She squints her eyes at me. “Yeah.”
We drive in silence. She draws the empty Kit Kat wrapper over her little box to hide the label, and pretends to take a bite out of it as I pull into my driveway.
“My dad will get upset if you’re eating candy when you come in,” I mumble to her as I put the old car in park. “He doesn’t like me eating sugar early in the day.”
“Oh, I can’t fucking believe this,” she groans. “He says one word about it and I pull the wrapper right off so he can see.”
My eyes go wide at her. “You can’t!”
She looks like she’s going to make fun of me before she really sees my face, and then right away she softens into the kind of girl I could ignore all my principles for. “I’m not going to show anyone,” she says. “I promise. Not until we know.”
We do our best to smile at each other through the heaviness of the silent car.
“I’m sorry about the candy,” I tell her. “I just wanted to do the right thing. The kind of thing… someone could look up to.”
She watches me with half-closed eyes. Doesn’t get the last word for once. Instead she just gets out of the car and walks towards the house without me, CVS bag in one hand and fake Kit Kat in the other. When she gets to the garage she turns around and holds out a hand to me through the July sunlight. I get out of the car and take it, so we’ll go to hell together.