But I don’t miss yoga clothes, because when I check out my reflection in the dressing room half an hour later, I know I’ve found the perfect mushroom-tasting outfit.
When I open the door, Gigi’s eyes are squeezed shut and she waggles her fingers. “I know this is going to be it. I can feel your fabulous fashion energy.”
I glance in the mirror again and an entire skyscraper’s worth of butterflies swarms up my chest because, hell, I feel like I’m shopping for a date with a guy.
And not just any guy, but Jesse.
Except I’m not. This isn’t a date. It’s a . . .
What would I call it?
An experience.
Yes. That’s it. Any time it feels like a date, I’m going to remind myself that our time together truly is . . . an experience.
And it’s an experience I need, judging from how completely awesome List Item Number Five felt.
I step all the way out of the dressing room and Gigi opens her eyes.
I strike a pose in my filmy black top and satin kilt with a faded silver buckle. She whistles, like she’s catcalling me at a construction site. “Oh, mama. You are one hot cannoli, cuz.”
I give a little curtsy. “Why, thank you. You’re sure it’s not too much?”
She taps her chin. “Well, looks like the top is $36.88 and the skirt is $40.99. So that’s $77.87, plus a smattering of tax. That seems reasonable.”
I roll my eyes. “No, human calculator, I meant not too much for a . . .” Do I call it an experience? I already told Gigi about the list and Jesse’s departure date, so she knows what we’re up to.
But how do I refer to the great mushroom taste test?
She arches a questioning brow. “For having mushrooms with Jesse on a Saturday night?”
It comes out pointed, like she’s reminding me about the unspoken significance of Saturday nights. Saturday nights are for black, slinky clothes.
They’re for dates.
A flush spreads across my chest. “Yes.”
“No, it’s not too much.” She makes a circular motion with her finger, pointing at me. “This outfit is fantastic. Full stop. And after you buy it—because you simply must buy it—can I borrow? It’s just delish.”
“Of course.”
I buy the delish, Saturday night outfit, and we head out of the shop, soaking in the July sun as it warms up the afternoon.
“You’re going to have fun tonight. I can feel it.” She lets out a contented sigh. “But I also want you to be careful, okay?”
I nod seriously. “Mushrooms are awful. Don’t worry—I’m well aware. I don’t intend to eat more than one. Maybe two.”
She shoots me a narrow look. “That’s not what I meant. I meant that you’re going to be spending an awful lot of time with a very handsome man doing exciting, dreamy, yummy things. It would be like if I were engaged in a seven-day . . . I don’t know, a Rubik’s Cube-off with Henry Cavill or something.”
I snort. “I call BS.”
“What? What part do you call BS on?”
I wag a finger her way. “It would not take you seven days to jump Henry Cavill. Or to solve a Rubik’s Cube.”
“My point exactly. You just finished physical therapy. You feel good. Accomplished. Ready to take on the world. I don’t want you to rush into anything that might complicate your fresh start.” She stops and turns to face me on the sidewalk. “Especially not with a man who’s leaving town.”
The reminder pierces my chest, sharp and hot.