The magic words every salesperson wants to hear. The look on Marianne's face is almost orgasmic, with wide eyes and her mouth open in the perfect “O”.” She glances at me again, clearly surprised. I don't dress the part of millionaire for a reason. I don't like the attention or the assumptions that come from it. Plus, my jeans and t-shirts are more comfortable, more me. “What size is your special friend?” she asks, again teasing me about the word friend.
The question catches me off guard and I'm not sure how to answer it. I look at the tags on the shirts, those are easy enough – small, medium, large, etc. But a specific size? I'm clueless.
“Probably a small? Maybe a medium?” I say hesitatingly. “She's got some curves though, so maybe larger?”
“You have no idea, do you?” Marianne asks me, clearly amused by my befuddlement.
“I don't,” I say, shaking my head. “Not really.”
“That's certainly going to make things difficult,” she ponders. “Though we have a generous return policy, so if something doesn't fit, you can always bring it back.”
Music to my ears. “I'll talk a small, medium and large sweater then. All of them in gray, please.”
“They're $300 a piece,” Marianna says, blinking up at me. “That would be – ”
I hand her my card. “Nine hundred dollars. I'll need some pants, and maybe a few more shirts to go with them too,” I say. “Just pick some nice things out. You have a nice style, so I'll trust your judgement.”
“What size pants?”
I stare at the pants in her hands and see that it's not a small, medium, large sort of thing. There's a number, and unlike with men's pants, it's not the size of the waist. It's merely one number. In this case, she's holding a size four, which sounds incredibly small to me.
“I honestly have no idea – ”
“Here, what if we got her some jeggings instead,” she says, putting the jeans away.
“Jeggings?” I scratch my head. “I have no idea what those are.”
“Stretchy jeans,” she says. “A mix between leggings and jeggings.”
“Huh, okay.”
She pulls out a few pairs for me, and I tell her to give me all three sizes – small, medium and large in those too. With that, I let Marianne run off to pick out a couple more outfits, some socks, a pair of shoes based on an estimated size. I have no idea what I'm doing here, but thankfully I've found a decent salesperson who does the work for me.
“You sure price isn't an issue, Mr. – ”
“Just call me Jack,” I tell her.
“Jack. Fitting,” she says.
I have no idea what she means by that, but the way her cheeks flush, she seems to mean it as a compliment. I think.
“And no, price isn't an issue,” I say.
Katya is leaning against the counter, watching us with pure envy in her eyes. Her perfectly manicured nails clack against the countertop, and with each item that Marianne rings up, Katya seems more and more disgruntled. Again, I assume they're paid on commission and considering my total, it's one hell of a sale. I can understand why she's disgruntled about it.
“Here's your receipt, Jack. Please make sure you hold onto it to return the items that don't fit,” she says as she writes something at the top. “And this is my cell phone number in case you have any questions or need anything else. I'm happy to help you, Jack.”
I have a feeling she's giving me her number for other reasons – not strictly, just to be helpful. She's a cute girl, I'll give her that, but I won't lead her on. I'm not interested in dating anyone – especially a good girl like Marianne. I'd just fuck her up big time if I got involved with her. Just like I did with Sydney.
“Thanks, Marianne,” I say, taking the paper from her and shoving it into my pocket.
It's almost noon, and Sydney is being released soon, which means I need to hustle down to the hospital. Now, with bags full of clothing, I can at least bring her back to my home. There, I can tell her the full story and we'll be able to sort everything out.
Hopefully, she'll stay with me until she heals, but in the end, it's up to her. Given our past, as soon as she remembers me, there's a good chance she'll want to run like hell. I can hope things turn out differently, but I have a feeling she'll head for the hills.
Not that I can blame her.
ooo000ooo
“You ready to go home?” The nurse asks her just as I step inside the hospital room.
Sydney glances at me, and the look in her eyes is one of fear of the unknown. I'm sure this all still feels so foreign to her, and I can't blame her at all. The fact that I'm taking her out of the hospital and taking her to my home – a man she doesn't even recall – has to be more than a little disconcerting.
It's almost unfair. Which gives me yet another reason to feel like an asshole.
I hand the bag of clothes over to Sydney and she looks at it, then up at me.
“I wasn't sure what size you are, so I bought one of every size. Just to be safe,” I tell her. I scratch my head. “We can return whatever doesn't fit.”
The nurse's smile falters and the light of suspicion blossoms in her eyes as she looks at me.
“Doesn't she have clothes at home you could have brought with you?” she asks.
I look back at her. “Sure, but I wanted to get her something nice,” I say. “After everything she's been through, she deserves it.”
A lie, but a harmless one. Tara, the nurse, smiles brightly at me. I guess my answer somehow appeased her and allayed her fears.
“You sure have found yourself a good one,” she says, patting Sydney on the arm.
“Thank you,” Sydney says quietly, uncertainty coloring her every word.
She can't meet my eyes, and I can't bring myself to meet hers either. The lie has gone on long enough. As soon as we're at my place, I'll tell her the truth. I have to. It's like this tremendous weight bearing down on me and I can't deal with it much longer. She deserves the truth – and I need to get out from under this oppressive weight.
Sydney gets up from the bed and walks to the bathroom with the bags in her hand. I want to offer my help, but I'm not sure it would be welcomed. So, instead of saying anything, I just hold the door open for her instead.
“Just call out if you need me,” I tell her. “I'll be right out here.”
She nods but doesn't speak to me. She's hardly said anything to me these last few days, except to ask questions. Questions I don't have the answers to. The door closes behind her, and Tara tells me to buzz her if we need anything before leaving the room herself.
It's all so ordinary. So normal. A husband taking his wife home from the hospital, to care for her. To help nurse her back to health and get her back on her feet. Except I'm not her husband, and she's going to realize that sooner or later. Probably the moment she steps through the front door and realizes that none of the things in my house belong to her. My place isn't exactly domesticated. It's rugged bachelor chic, I like to call it.
After Tara leaves, the room is uncomfortably silent. I sit on the edge of the bed looking around until finally, I can't stand the silence anymore. Sydney is in the bathroom for a bit longer than expected, so I knock gently.
“You okay in there, Syd?”
“I'm fine,” she says.
That's what all women say when things are certainly not fine. Nothing is fine and I know it. I flop down in the chair by the hospital bed and stare up at the television. It's muted, but there are subtitles. Some shitty daytime talk show is playing. Something Sydney wouldn't be interested in. Or would she? Hell, a lot has changed since we were together. Maybe this Sydney likes Maury or Dr. Oz, or whatever the hell is on. How would I know?
The bathroom door opens and Sydney steps out in the cashmere sweater, dark denim jeggings and black boots. The outfit fits her. She looks good in it. Her skin is still paler than normal, and her reddish-brown bob hangs loosely around her face rather than it being styled like normal. Her green eyes are bright and large – larger than I'd ever seen them before.
“The sweaters still had the tags on them,” she says. “Were they really three hundred dollars apiece?”
Shit. In my rush, I'd forgotten to remove the tags. Not like it really matters, I guess.
I shrug. “They're real cashmere,” I say. “I thought you'd like it.”
“I do, it's just – do you – I mean do we – have that kind of money?”