I kiss the top of her head. “I’ll still be here when you get back.”
“Will you come with me?”
I’ll probably be in everyone’s way, but Zoe finally wants me near her again, and I don’t want to let go, either. “Sure,” I say.
She holds my hand all the way to the shop. When we get there, she changes into a flouncy yellow dress and stands in front of a three-way mirror while a gray-haired woman pins her hem. There are only two costume people still working—everyone else is probably at dinner—so I wander through the organized chaos of the shop without fear of being a nuisance. The shelves that line the walls are packed with spools of thread, ribbon, trim, and buttons in every conceivable color, and there are half-naked dress forms everywhere, clad in Shakespearean doublets and sequined evening gowns. In one corner, shoe boxes are stacked all the way up to the ceiling, each one neatly labeled. The lulling whir of sewing machines and box fans fills the air, underscored by the oldies station playing on a tiny radio. It’s nicer than I expected in here; maybe I won’t mind working wardrobe for Macbeth next rotation.
I’m inspecting a pair of blue satin pantaloons when Zoe comes back out in her normal clothes and slips an arm around my waist. “Hey,” she says. “All done. You want to see something cool?”
“Of course,” I say.
She grabs my hand, leads me to the back corner of the shop, and pushes back a faded maroon curtain to reveal a staircase. “Come on,” she says. “Costume storage is up there.”
“Are we allowed to go in?”
“Probably not,” she says, but she’s already on the third step. I take a quick look around the room, but nobody’s watching us, so I follow. This isn’t exactly a daring escapade, but Zoe’s enthusiasm makes everything feel like an adventure.
We emerge into a big, dusty space crowded with a maze of clothing racks. The one closest to me is labeled “1920s Women” and holds more flapper dresses than I’ve ever seen in one place. The next one over has military uniforms on one end and Victorian gowns on the other. I finger the beaded hem of a black-and-silver dress. “This place is amazing,” I say.
“Isn’t it?” Zoe disappears down an aisle and emerges a minute later wearing an enormous red Kentucky Derby hat with feather plumes. “What do you think?” she asks. “Does it bring out my eyes?”
“Oh, for sure,” I say.
“Here, I got you one, too.”
She tosses me a hideous, wide-brimmed gold hat covered in cloth roses, plastic cherries, and a fake bird. I pull it on and adopt a terrible British accent. “Daahhh-ling, won’t you join me for tea and crumpets in the parlor?”
Zoe swaps her hat for one of those furry Russian ones with giant earflaps. “No time for tea! Fetch me the sled dogs!” she growls in a baritone voice, and we both burst out laughing. I love that even after everything we went through this weekend, we can still be silly together. It makes me feel like things are going to be okay between us after all.
Zoe pushes deeper into the room, opens a plastic bin labeled “Undergarments,” and pulls out a lacy purple bra so big, she could probably fit her entire head into one side. “Oh my God, look,” she says. When she fastens it over her T-shirt, the empty cups sag down so low, they almost touch her waist. She sidles up to me and shimmies her shoulders. “Do my giant purple bazooms turn you on, baby?”
I laugh. “That thing would probably fit Barb.”
“Can you even imagine? I bet she sneaks up here at night and parades around in it.” Zoe tugs a flouncy red petticoat up over her shorts, then pulls something out of the box that looks like three U-shaped neck pillows sewn together. “What do you think this is?”
“It goes under a bustle,” I say. “Here, give it to me.” I tie it on over my jeans and shake my butt so the pillows bounce up and down. “It matches my hat, don’t you think?”
“So hot,” Zoe says. “Now all you need is this.” She grabs a purple velvet cape with a dragon embroidered on the back and drapes it around my shoulders. I complete the ensemble with a huge, blingy dollar sign on a long gold chain, and she nods her approval.
“Perfect,” I say. “I’m ready for my close-up.”
Zoe grabs the two sides of my cape and uses them to pull me up against her. “Is this close enough?”
“Almost,” I say. “Maybe a tiny bit closer?”
She runs her hands down to my waist and over the pillows. “Mmm, a cape and a butt pad. Exactly what I look for in a girl.”