Excerpt from The Favor by Nora Murphy, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

The bottles clattered against each other and the Grey Goose as I followed her to the checkout line. I pictured the bottles shattering from the force of being knocked together, the liquid gushing to the floor in a waterfall, soaking my yoga pants and sneakers, the woman turning to look at me as I melted to the floor in embarrassment.

That didn't happen, and I didn't know whether I wanted it to, or not.

But I had become the sort of person to whom something so shameful might happen. Not like her. Her bottles would never shatter. Mine wouldn't have, either, back then.

On my way to the checkout line, I tossed a bag of chips and two chocolate bars into my basket. I didn't notice which flavors I selected, and that's because it didn't matter. I wouldn't taste them anyway.

I stood in line behind the woman, approximately two feet away. I imagined that I was her. I wished that I was.

And I almost laughed. Because I used to be.

I could see a single gray hair sprouting from the back of her head. It must have been missed when she last had her highlights done. I resisted the urge to reach out and pluck it for her.

I have started to notice a few gray hairs on my own head as well, even though I'm not quite thirty. They're mostly underneath the top layers of hair, around my ears. I, too, used to sit in a black leather swivel chair for three hours every few months while a woman whom I knew very superficially would paint odorous dye onto my head and fold sections of hair into the same aluminum foil used to roast potatoes or salmon. It's been a long time since I've done that, and I don't plan on resuming the dreaded ritual any time soon. I have no need for dyed hair, for multifaceted tresses, for covering grays. Not anymore.

Last Wednesday, when I awoke in the basement guest room, my head pounding and pulsing like a car full of teenagers, my mouth bone dry, I pawed at the nightstand, feeling for my cell phone so that I could check the time. Instead, I'd located a small cardboard box. I'd held it inches from my face trying to make out the words.

Permanent hair color. Ash blonde.

I hadn't purchased it, and I hadn't put it there. I'd thrown the box across the room with strength I hadn't known I possessed.

My only thought: I wish I could lock him out.

Abruptly, the woman turned. My mouth fell open in surprise and I almost gasped. Almost, but I didn't. I swallowed it down like a shot of vodka.

"Sorry," the woman said. She smiled slightly at me again before moving out of her place in the line and ducking past me.

That's okay, I wanted to say.

I wanted to, but I didn't. Instead, I stepped forward and assumed what had been her place in the line. I glanced over my shoulder to see her standing in front of the rack holding bags of kettle chips. She selected two and put them in her basket. I turned away, focusing on the bald head of the man in front of me, watching as he stepped forward to pay for his six-pack of beer.

I sensed, rather than saw, the woman standing behind me.

Would she, I wondered, rip open one of the bags of chips before backing out of her parking spot, and eat one after the other on her way home, wiping jalapeño flecks and sea salt and black pepper onto her thighs, like I do? Would she open one of the bottles of wine and pour a few fingers into a stainless steel water bottle, waiting patiently openmouthed in her cup holder? Does she have a wine opener on her keychain, along with keys to her car and her house? I do. Even though I'm not usually a wine drinker—not anymore—I do. Would she sip from the cup as she made her way home, feeling the warm blush of relief burgeoning in her belly?

I felt the buzz of attention. I felt an oddly pleasant glow of affection toward this woman standing behind me. I didn't know for certain whether she was looking at me, but I felt like she was. I wondered whether she was taking her turn, taking stock of my gray hairs.

Excerpted from The Favor by Nora Murphy. Copyright © 2022 by Nora Murphy. Excerpted by permission of Minotaur Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.