We come to a stoplight, the first one so far. With his hand still curled around the steering wheel, he points a long index finger—the nail bitten off, cuticle cracking—at a forest-green building. “Right there.”

A white bristol-board sign hangs over the darkened entryway. “Berta’s Coffee and Bait Shop?” I read out loud.

“Yeah. You know . . . fish eggs, leeches, herring, shad, chunks of dead—”

“I get it,” I cut him off with a cringe. “But in a coffee shop? That’s got to be a health code violation.”

“People need to diversify to keep their businesses afloat around here.”

“I guess.” I’m still cringing when I notice the ramshackle building next to it, a medley of ill-sized plywood boards and metal sheets and worn paint, and a wooden board slapped to the front that has SZECHUAN’S scrawled across it with, I’m guessing, a wide paintbrush. “Oh my God. Is that . . . a Chinese food restaurant?” Because it looks like a backyard clubhouse built out of scrap material by a bunch of ten-year-old boys.

“It’s been there forever.”

That place would be shut down for a slew of health and building code violations in a day, anywhere else in North America.

“Where the hell am I?” I mumble, aiming my phone. Wait until Diana sees this.

I feel his steady gaze on me. “Do you want me to pull over, so you can run in and see if they have a fresh pot of—”

“No thanks. I’ll wait.” I’d rather deal with this pounding headache than accept a coffee from someone who most certainly didn’t wash their hands enough after sticking them into a vat of writhing earthworms.

I think there’s a small smile lurking behind that beard, but it’s hard to see. Still, I feel an odd sense of accomplishment at the possibility that this “teddy bear”—by Agnes’s description—might not despise me as much as he seemed to initially.

He makes another turn—either my dad’s directions on that note were wrong or Jonah took me the long way—and we’re now on Main Street, a wider road lined with more of the same simple siding-clad buildings, only with business signs. Bangor seems to have all the service staples—law office, dentist, chamber of commerce, bank, even a real estate broker—as well as a string of sandwich, pizza, and family restaurants that are basic but don’t look like they’re serving up listeria.

My stomach grumbles as we roll past Gigi’s Pizza & Pasta, a cute upbeat yellow place with more windows than anyone else on the street. But the neon OPEN sign by the door isn’t illuminated. If it were, I’d ask Jonah to drop me off there and I’d catch a cab home.

Jonah swerves into a parking lot and pulls in next to an ATV. A giant warehouse is ahead, finished off with an earthy brown siding and a gently sloped black tin roof. The sign above the door reads MEYER’S GROCERY, CLOTHING, AND HOUSEHOLD GOODS.

“Look, if you want to wait—”

He pops his door open and with sleek moves, exits his truck and rounds the front of it, before I have a chance to finish my sentence. And then he simply stands there, arms folded across his broad chest, waiting for me.

“I guess I’m going grocery shopping with Jonah,” I mutter to myself. At least this way he can’t abandon me here.

I hope.

I slide out of the passenger seat, adjusting my fitted sweater over my hips and waist.

Jonah’s eyes catch the subtle move and then he turns away, looking wholly disinterested. That’s fine, because I’m not trying to attract him. What would be his type anyway, I wonder. I couldn’t even hazard a guess, other than to say “hardy.”

He marches for a set of stairs that lead to the main door.

And despite the fact that he’s a jerk, I can’t help but admire the curves of his shoulders and arms as I follow him in. He has an impressive upper body. The upper body of someone who lifts weights regularly. His lower body, I can’t discern. His jeans are too loose to show any real definition, plus he should tighten his belt a few notches because they’re sagging on his ass.

I look up in time to meet his eyes. Jonah has caught me and it probably looks like I’m ogling him.

“I thought you were in a rush.” I nod my chin to urge him forward, feeling my cheeks burn.

He tugs on a shopping cart handle, pulling it free from the rack. “Where to, first?”

Good question. One of the luxuries of still living at home is that I don’t have to think about meal planning. Sure, when my friends and I head off for a weekend, we’ll stop at the grocery store and load up a cart with burgers and the like, but Mom takes care of planning food for the week. When was the last time I had to do it?

Have I ever?

The interior of Meyer’s is pure chaos, I realize, as I take in the sea of products that seem to occupy every available square inch of real estate. This is not what I’m used to. On the rare occasion that I have to grab something we’ve run out of, it’s at the local Loblaws, a sleek, stylish store with spacious aisles, polished floors, and tempting produce displays.

As far as aesthetics go, this place sorely pales by comparison, with everything from its flickering low-voltage lights above to the scuffed gray floors and narrow aisles, the shelves crammed with product and topped with brown cases for excess stock. Islands of soft drinks and toilet paper sit on pallets, creating obstacles for carts to navigate around. Everywhere I look, there are oversized SALE signs, but the prices marked can’t possibly be right because ten dollars for a box of Cheerios? Thirteen bucks for a twelve-pack of bottled water? Thirty-two dollars for toilet paper?