So, when Brendon offers to take me shopping for school supplies, I jump. Insist we do it on a day I know Emma works.
It's not like I'm desperate to get him alone.
Not at all.
* * *
I grab Brendon's wrist as we step into Macy's.
We turn to the right, past the shiny shoes. Through the wall of perfume—I have to turn to my side, to face him, to avoid scents in my nose and eyes.
Past the makeup counters stocked with forty-dollar foundation and twenty-dollar lipstick. The kind of stuff Emma brags about buying with her employee discount.
Right to the handbags.
Huh?
"You have a Louis Vuitton obsession I should know about?" I tease.
"Who?" He raises a brow.
I point to the designer bags to our left. They're iconic. Brown with a tan logo.
Brendon steps forward. Checks the price tag. "Fuck. Really? For that?"
Several hundred dollars for a scrap of leather is obscene. But, hey, what do I know what it's like to have money? "You never spend on something you don't need?"
"Need is relative."
"Capitalism is for scum?"
He chuckles. "There's a line somewhere, yeah." He sets the bag down. "Would you buy one of those bags?"
"No. They're ugly."
"And I'm harsh?"
I laugh. "The color scheme doesn't do it for me."
"What about this?" He points to a similar bag in bright pink. Moves close enough to check the price tag. "Is this walking advertisement worth two weeks of waiting tables?"
"Not to me."
"But to someone?"
"It's a status symbol."
He raises a brow. "And that's a good thing?"
"I don't know. I'm never going to have status."
"I'm calling it now. When you write the next Hunger Games, you're going to spend your advance on hideous overpriced bags." His voice floats to that teasing tone. His dark eyes light up.
"I am not," I tease back. "But so what if I did? What's wrong with wanting people to see you as well off?"
He shakes his head. "That's what my mom was like. She needed a new car. A remodeled kitchen. The latest fashions. Even her nail polish was trendy."
"I remember." Sort of. "Is that really all she was?"