Ironically, most men didn’t give a shit. If they saw the horrible ribbons of scars that swarmed my leg, they didn’t stare. They barely noticed. They were just staring at my tits and vagina and that was about it. If they were really nice, they’d stare at my face. But it didn’t stop me from almost having a panic attack every time I got naked. I was always waiting for that moment for some asshole guy to kick me out of bed for being a freak.
Camden knew about my scars; he always wanted to see them, but I’d never show. I didn’t want the only person who liked me to lose his desire or interest in me. I didn’t want it to put a barrier between us. It sounded silly since he was just as different as I was, but I could never forget how easy it was for him to hide— if he wanted to—and how impossible it was for me.
And now, well now he wasn’t a freak. Now he was a virile young man whose body I wanted nothing more than to run my hands over and get a firm grope in here and there. He was now that and I was still me.
After we left the driving range and headed back into town, the searing heat of the sun and the stark blue sky burning away some of my insecurities, we got started on the next portion of our Day of Fun.
He pulled the Jeep into the parking lot of one of the local thrift stores and peeked at me over his wayfarer shades.
“Are you ready for our next adventure?”
I stared at the store in awe. It was the same damn one we used to shop at when we were young. As high school went on, I kind of forgot about the place, but here it was still ticking. From the smudged front window it looked dimly lit, like it wasn’t even open, but then again it had always looked that way.
I took off my sunglasses and slipped them in my purse. “Same deal as before?”
“Yup. I buy you an outfit and you buy me an outfit. And we have to wear it tonight. No matter what.”
“Tonight, huh? It would help if I knew what we were doing,” I teased. Camden was doling out our day one piece at a time. For all I knew, we could be going to one of the Fabulous Follies shows in Palm Springs, or harassing the camels at The Living Desert in Palm Desert.
“I can give you a hint…it involves dinner. But I haven’t quite figured out where yet. I was thinking maybe the restaurant at the top of the gondola.”
I grimaced. “The gondola that makes me want to vomit? Good choice.”
“Or,” he said, louder now, “we can do dinner at my place.”
My ears perked up. I smiled mischievously, brushing my hair back behind my ear. Dinner at his place meant I could properly scope out the joint. It also meant sex. I hoped it would at least mean one of those things.
His face went smoothly blank for a split-second and his jaw twitched. Then he smiled and was back to his vibrant self. “Dinner at my place it is then. Now let’s make sure we’re dressed well for the occasion.” He hopped out of the jeep and made his way toward the entrance. I sat there for a few moments, feeling strangely uneasy, then brushed it away and joined him.
The door was still one of those you couldn’t tell if you had to push or pull, and after a failed attempt, Camden was holding the door open for me. The shop smelled exactly as I remembered—like mothballs, potpourri, and brass. The woman behind the counter was younger than the one back in the day, but she was still in her sixties and wore thick glasses with an ugly beaded neck strap. She snapped her head up from her paperback novel as we came in and gave us a tepid smile. I knew that smile. It was the “oh crap, these kids are going to rob me, aren’t they?” kind of smile. She’d be watching our every move.
The shop was almost empty except for an old, hunched over lady in the housewares section, peering at chipped teacups. Camden and I made a beeline for the clothes, he to the women’s section and me to the men’s, and we started noisily flipping through the racks.
I was pretty giddy as I flung the hangers down, looking for the perfect outfit for him. In the past we were all about humiliating each other, which was only fair and fun since we’d both look like idiots. Now I wasn’t sure what the plan was. But making him look like a goof during dinner seemed like a great idea to me.
I came across an extremely loud pink and purple Hawaiian shirt that wouldn’t even look hip on him. It was tacky faux silk and two sizes too large. I’d make him wear it halfway unbuttoned, then I could stare at his chest (honestly, when had I become such a horndog?). After that winning find, I went to the pants section. Something tight would do the trick, even though he hadn’t shown any aversion to tight pants, both then and now.
Then I spotted it. A kilt. Green and black tartan. Oh yes, this would look wonderful on my Scottish Hawaiian dude. I rounded out the outfit with a black fedora. Now he was also a private eye.
“Okay,” I called to him over the racks. “I have your stuff.”
“Already?” he asked, still searching through his end. “Should I be worried?”
“You should be very worried. Unless you’ve always wanted to be a Scottish detective from Hawaii.”
“Like Magnum P.I.?”
“Not even close.”