Reed: Probably. Molly’s family is loaded. They’ll have all the best shit.
Me: Okay. Have a great day constructing.
Have a great day constructing? Good Lord. What is wrong with me? I should not be unsupervised with a cell phone.
I step up next to Riley as the line for second helpings begins to form. The previous conversation circles in my head, heating my skin and lifting the corner of my mouth.
I don’t get dick very often.
Forget texting him my address. My whore of an iPhone will have a field day with Balzac Street.
I THINK IN ANOTHER LIFE, I had to have been a man.
I’ve never liked shopping. Never. It’s one of the reasons almost everything I own is something my momma used to wear that I’ve altered to fit my body. She was little like me, but had a bigger chest, so most of her shirts hang funny until I take a needle and thread to them. I’ve gotten pretty good at fixing up stuff to fit me. I still go shopping for some things, but honestly, I’ve always liked my momma’s style better than anything I can ever find at the mall. Being teased in school for wearing torn concert tees and ratty flannels didn’t stop me. I didn’t care what people had to say. I was me. I have always been me. I’ll never change for anyone, and if someone doesn’t like it they were never meant for me to know anyway. Life’s too short to dress boring and predictable. I don’t want to wear things that make me uncomfortable in my own skin. But sometimes, you have to bite the bullet. Sometimes, you have to drag yourself into very overly priced boutiques, searching for something to wear to a party which will apparently have all the best shit.
I’m on dress number eight, and I’m exhausted.
“Mommy, look! Buy dis! It’s got a puppy on it!”
The cutest little voice seeps into the small dressing room I’m standing in, bringing the only smile to my face since I stepped into this god-awful strip mall.
“Nolan, put that back and come stand by me, please.”
Nolan? Nolan . . . why do I know that name?
I secure the zipper underneath my arm and step out to view this disaster I’m wearing in a three-way mirror. As I’m turning to gauge how wrong this thing looks from the back, an infectious little laugh comes from somewhere in the store. God, that’s adorable.
“What’s up, Clapton?”
I lean back to look out into the store from the secluded area of the dressing rooms.
The red-head who was sitting next to Reed the other day at the pizza place is standing just outside the doorway, leaning her elbow against a rack of blouses. She tilts her head with a coy smile.
“Fancy seeing you here.” Her eyes fall to my dress, then a finger darts directly at the material rejecting my body. She hisses through a grimace. “That dress,” she says, her voice tight with judgment. “It’s not working for you at all.”
I breathe a raspy sigh while running my hands over the satin covering my stomach. “Tell me about it. None of these dresses are working for me.”
“It’s giving you this double boob thing. Does it have a built-in bra?”
“Yes,” I answer, staring down at my chest. Double boob? That can’t be the only issue.
“Mm mmm. That’s it. That’s the problem.”
“Oh hey! It’s you!”
I look up as the other woman from the pizza shop walks over, stopping at the rack of clothes and wearing one of those kangaroo baby carriers on her chest. The little guy against her makes a soft, cooing sound, while the boy I’m certain was responsible for the giggling hides behind her legs, peeking his head around her thigh.
Nolan. That’s why I know that name. The cutie with the hardhat.
She looks at me like I’m an old friend. Like I’m someone who already means something to her.
“It’s so good to see you. Beth, right?”
“Yes, hi. It’s good to see you guys too.” I wave at Nolan and he giggles again, ducking behind a leg.
I can’t decide how I want to prevent this nightmare I’m wearing from blinding them. I’m fidgeting, but it has nothing to do with nervousness as my arms cross over my chest, then flatten against my stomach, then tug at the material, hoping it’ll somehow tear from my body to reveal something perfect underneath.
I look down at the front of me, then back up at them. “I’m sorry. I forgot your names.”
“Tessa.” The red-head speaks up first.
“Mia.”
The little boy reaches up and tugs on Mia’s shirt. “Mommy, can I pway with your phone?” She hands it to him and he shifts the Playskool tool belt around his waist before hoping up on the chair just inside the dressing room area. His little feet swing in the air.
“Stay out of the app store, please.” Mia tilts the hard hat on his head to see his face. He smiles up at her with the cutest dimples I’ve ever seen, two massive craters sinking in his cheeks, then drops his attention to the phone in his hands.