I shift into the corner of the couch—which is Avery’s spot, but on sports night, if you move, your seat is always fair game.
A while later an odd clicking sound draws my attention away from the game. I can’t place it until Avery steps into the living room. She’s no longer wearing sweatpants and a ratty, threadbare T-shirt. Instead, she’s poured herself into a slinky black dress that hugs every single one of her athletic curves. In all the years I’ve known Avery, and I’ve known her for a lot of years, I can probably count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen her in a dress. And I’ve never seen her wear anything this … sexy.
I’ll be honest. It’s kind of freaking me out, because ever since college, when she started dating my former best friend Sam, I regarded Avery as a friend—she just happens to have a chest that she usually flattens into a uni-boob with a sports bra. The fact that her ex, Sam, screwed her over and nearly caused our friend group to disband helps keep her in the friend zone.
Except right now it’s hard not to see her as the attractive woman she is. “You’re a little overdressed for soccer and beer.”
“Ha-ha.” Avery rolls her eyes. “I’m going out. Obviously.”
“You got a Spark House event or something?” I know we’ve got that alumni thing tomorrow, but I figured her being home tonight meant she didn’t have anywhere to go. And I’m not sure I would consider that work-appropriate attire—even if it is a night thing—especially since those hobbyhorse dudes look like they probably don’t do much in the way of socializing beyond comparing the size of their stuffed horse heads on sticks.
“Holy shit, Ave, you are smokin’.” Mark whistles loudly, drawing Jerome’s attention away from the game as well.
“What’s the special occasion?” Jerome’s eyes flare, signaling he’s as shocked as I am by the dress.
We’re all used to casual, dressed-down Avery, not this hair and makeup done, dressed-up version.
“I have a date.” Her cheeks flush, and she tugs at the hem of the dress.
“Whoa. A date? Dude must be killing it in the sack if you’re willing to put on this smoke show.” Jerome does the finger spin. “Let’s see the back of this number.”
“It’s a first date, so I have no idea if he’s killing it in the sack.” She turns, pulling her hair over her shoulder to expose the back of dress. The straps are thin. So thin, in fact, that there is absolutely no way she can be wearing a bra. Not to mention it dips low, exposing a significant amount of skin. The dress is also on the shorter side, hitting her mid-thigh, showing off her athletic legs.
Having lived with Avery for a while, I’m familiar with her underwear preferences. Sometimes our laundry gets mixed up, or I have to move her stuff from the dryer to the basket. She’s a boy shorts and full coverage kind of woman most of the time. Always basic colors like black and beige. No frills, nothing risqué. However, I do not detect panty lines. Which means she’s either wearing a pair of those seamless, ugly-as-fuck beige ones I’ve had the misfortune of finding stuck inside the leg of my jeans, or she’s wearing a thong.
For whatever reason, I would much prefer it to be the former rather than the latter.
“So? What do you think? Is it too much for a first date?” She props a fist on her hip and bites her bottom lip.
“I think if you want to find out if he’s killin’ it in the sack, that’s definitely the dress you should wear,” Jerome says.
Mark nods his agreement.
She makes a face. “Do you think it sends the wrong message?”
“Nah, you look sexy as hell. Own it. He’ll be begging for a second date.” Jerome fist-bumps Mark.
“And picking up the tab.” Mark pretends to make it rain dollar bills.
“I’ll pay for my own drink, but it’s good to know showing off my legs can cut down on my expenses.” Avery smirks.
“Do you have any other options? Maybe you want to show us a couple other ones and we can vote on a fave?” I suggest. “What about that army-green shirtdress?”
“Oh! Yes. Okay. London loaned me a couple other dresses, but I think they might be overkill. I’ll try on the shirtdress first.”
She disappears down the hall with the clickity-click of her heels, and I go back to watching the game. Except I can feel Jerome and Mark staring at me. “What?”
“Why would you want her to change out of that? And what the hell is a shirtdress?” Jerome asks.
“Just for options, you know? Girls usually like to change five times before a date. She probably threw on the first thing she found.” There’s a silence, but I purposefully avoid looking at either of them.