“I’m looking forward to this fashion show,” she said, and then winked at me.
I couldn’t help my grin. She was being so adorably obvious, and it made me feel like she was giving me a mental high five, a la, You go, girl!
“That’s because you don’t seem to mind my questions,” Matt said once she left, picking our conversation right back up as he considered the suit next to him on a mannequin. “Are we getting suits here?”
That stopped me in my tracks. “Do you want a suit?”
He scrutinized me like my question was a test. “I don’t know. Do I?”
“I guess we could get you a suit, if you think you’ll use it.” I contemplated the mannequin, touching the fabric of the three-piece with my fingertips. “This is fine.”
“Fine?” He glanced between me and the suit. “Is fine good?”
I shrugged. “Or we could go someplace less expensive. It depends on what you want to use it for.”
Matt stared at me, analyzing my features attentively. “See? It’s like you’re speaking a different language.”
I laughed. “Okay. What are you going to use it for?”
“You haven’t given me enough information in order to make a decision. I need more data.”
I laughed again. “You have several different categories of suits, depending on the needs of the person. If you’re using it to go to a funeral or twice a year for weddings, or something like that, then you probably don’t need a very expensive suit. If that’s the case, we should go someplace cheaper.”
“What’s the downside? Of a less expensive suit?”
“They don’t look as nice and they’re not usually great quality, which means they wear out faster.”
“But this suit,” he gestured to the one next to us, “will look better and last longer?”
“Yes. This is a medium-quality suit.”
“Where can one acquire a high-quality suit?”
“Um . . .” I glanced to the right, trying to remember where Janie said Quinn bought his suits. “There’s a designer in Chicago, Daniel George, who will hand-make a suit, or even shirts, using fabrics and a cut specifically chosen for you.”
“It’s literally tailor-made.”
“Correct.”
“And it’ll look the best?”
“And last for a long time, yes. But it’ll cost a lot. Like, a lot a lot.”
He gave me a flat, teasing smile. “For a writer, you sure do use the big words.”
I rolled my eyes, turning from him. “Fine. The expenditure will be exorbitant.”
He came up behind me, peering over my shoulder as I thumbed through a rack of dress pants. “Is there any place like that? For women?”
“Not really. I mean, you can get custom clothing made, but most women don’t.”
“Because it’s expensive?”
“That, and because there’s already so much to choose from ready-made that runs the gamut of inexpensive to upscale.”
“Where do you shop? For yourself?”
“The only thing I ever pay retail for is yarn.”
He paused, like he was trying to untangle a puzzle. “Meaning?”
“I usually shop consignment. I like it because a) it’s a lot cheaper, and b) consignment shops have a bunch of brands rather than just one, so it’s like going to multiple stores at once.”
He paused again, considering this information, then said, “Huh.”
I looked at him because the way he said huh was peculiar. “What?”
“Your methods are efficient.” He was smiling at me, giving me the sense that he very much approved of my methods. My efficient methods.
Watching Matt try on clothes was a ridiculous amount of fun.
Since it was after lunch on a weekday, the store was very slow. Therefore, a few of the sales associates meandered over, having nothing better to do, and soon it became a one-man fashion show.
At first, he was very stiff. Glowering when he emerged from his dressing room, clearly uncomfortable. It didn’t help that he had no idea how to put on nice clothes.
One of the sales guys, Mason I think, noticing how Matt had left his shirt untucked and was wearing dress pants without a belt, shook his head, saying, “You need an intervention, bro.”
As it turned out, Mason and Keely—the female attendant who had set up Matt’s dressing room—were dating and were happy to tag team him, where Mason was bad cop and Keely was good cop.
“No, bro. Don’t wear it like that.” Mason unbuttoned the top two buttons of Matt’s shirt. “You can’t button it all the way. You only button it all the way if you’re wearing a tie. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that?”
“No,” Matt answered honestly, turning to look at himself in the mirror once Mason and Keely had adjusted his clothes. His frown turned upside down and he blinked, like he didn’t recognize himself, but he liked what he saw.
It was such an adorable moment, I could only tuck my hands under my chin and watch quietly.
“You look so great,” Keely said enthusiastically. “This is like one of those makeover shows.”
“How long y’all been dating?” Mason asked me at one point while Matt was changing.
“Oh, um. We’re not. We’re just friends.”
Mason blinked at me, his eyes traveling over my body. “Is he gay?”
Keely smacked her boyfriend on the shoulder, laughing. “He’s not gay. He’s clueless.”
“Clearly.” Mason mouth transformed into a dissatisfied line.
“Don’t worry, Mamma.” Keely gave me a wink, leaning close. “He’ll figure it out. Sometimes you have to lead the horse to water.”
I shook my head, and it was on the tip of my tongue to correct her, to say that I wasn’t interested in him that way, but I couldn’t. Because over the last two weeks, we’d worked together, seen a movie together, eaten dinner and lunch together, and now, shopped together. The more time I spent with Matt, the more denying the escalation of my interest in him sounded like a lie.
14
Pizza Shoes
A pair of sneakers with a button on them that allow its owner to order pizza (by pressing the button . . . and that’s it). I swear to God, I’m not making this up.
Source: Pizza Hut
My hopes were starting to revive without me explicitly telling them to do so.
I was hopeful . . . and confused.
My first clue that things were seriously amiss was my growing preoccupation with buying things for him. Everywhere I went, I saw items I wanted to get him. A Robocop mug (robomug). A Space Invaders tie. An Ultron bathrobe.
I did end up buying the Space Invaders tie. It was on sale. Yep. So I actually saved money when I bought it.
Right.
Currently, it was Thursday night and Matt had texted me again, this time to see if I was dead, or if I wanted to eat dinner. Once more, his timing was impeccable. My copy of The Cuddle Sutra had just arrived in the mail that afternoon and I needed a partner to try out the positions.