Inside, on my end of the top shelf, stood a bottle of fresh-squeezed orange juice that had definitely not been there before. Next to the orange juice was a container of strawberries. A box of banana nut muffins sat on the counter by the paper towels. “‘I’m not your boyfriend, Christina, I’m not here for that shit,’” I mimicked under my breath. I leaned on the fridge door, giddy, like in the bridal shop. I giggled at the orange juice.
