“I don’t care,” he responds. Of course he doesn’t. My pulse jets up because breaking rules stresses me out. When he sweeps my hair over my shoulder and runs his hand up the length of the zipper, tugging it to its end at the nape of my neck, I decide rule breaking has its perks.
Resting his chin on my shoulder, he wraps his arms around me from behind and we both size up his pick. My hands run down the front to my hips and slip into secret pockets I didn’t know where there. The discovery sparks an instant grin.
“It’s perfect,” I say, bunching the pocket material into my palms inside the dress.
Theo leaves his eyes on my reflection but drops a soft kiss at the curve of my neck. It sends a thousand tiny bumps down my spine, like cool ice and a breeze on top of it. I shiver in response, which makes him nuzzle his scratchy chin against my bare skin to tickle me more.
“Well?” Morgan shouts from a dozen feet away.
Theo backs out and I step in front of him and move toward my friend. Her arms are crossed over her chest and her mouth is screwed up to match her judgey expression. She twirls a finger in the air, directing me to spin, and I do, keeping my hands in their very cozy pockets the entire time.
“Fine, he’s right. You look good in yellow. You should get it.” She purses her lips, and I think she might truly be offended that Theo nailed this before she did. I don’t care, though, because one, this dress has pockets, and two, I could get used to the way Theo looks at me in something he chose.
They both wait by the seats while I slip back out of the dress and into my school uniform. I check the prices on the two jeans I decided to get along with a sweater and the yellow dress, and my stomach clenches at the nearly seven-hundred-dollar total. I’ve never used the credit card my dad gave me for anything, though. And he tells me I should every time we talk—when he responds to my calls.
I leave the discards on the rack and head to the register with my friends. Brooklyn has caught up to us and James and Cameron are nearby entertaining themselves with the cologne samples.
“Your car is going to reek,” I say to Theo as we both wait while the clerk scans my items and folds them neatly into tissue paper. I’ve never bought clothes that get packaged up like Christmas gifts before.
“Correction, Brooklyn’s car is going to reek. I’m taking you home and they can all pile into the Mercedes with her.”
“Oh, yeah?” I smile up at him.
“Ma’am, this card is declined.” The clerk’s voice breaks through my joyful haze and my chest tightens. I might be having a heart attack. My chest hurts, right under the bone. I can’t breathe.
“That can’t be. Can you try again?” I beg.
She levels me with a crooked grimace and slides my card again, not even bothering to look as she does. My mouth is watering with the desire to vomit. She shakes her head and holds the useless plastic out to me.
“It’s my dad’s. It should work. Let me just call him. He must have a lock on it or something,” I say, fumbling with my phone. I swipe to my dad’s contact info and press CALL. The phone goes to voicemail almost immediately, so I try again only to get the same result. I start to text him, praying to see those little dots that show he’s responding, but my message sits there unnoticed. It only says delivered. It doesn’t even say read.
“Ma’am, if you can’t pay, I need to take the next customer.”
Oh, my God. There’s someone waiting behind me.
I glance over my shoulder and spot a woman and her daughter waiting with their arms filled with merchandise. This lady will make way more in commission off them.
“Use mine,” Theo says, handing over his card.
“No, I can pay. Let me . . .”
He wraps his hand on top of both of mine, stopping them shaking as they grasp my wallet. I’m so embarrassed. More than that, though, I’m hurt. My dad only shows his affection by making a credit card available to me, and the one time I try to use it, it’s quite literally useless.
The woman swipes Theo’s card and he scribbles his name on the receipt. Once my purchase is bagged, we head over to where our friends are still sampling sprays and lotions. I feel like crying, and when Brooklyn asks me if something’s wrong, I tell her I’m probably allergic to the toxic cloud James and Cameron have made.
It makes for a good excuse, but the pit in my stomach only gets deeper the more we walk through the mall. Once there’s some distance between our friends and us, I thread my arm through Theo’s and hug it, sure he can still feel me tremble.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say.
He stops us in the middle of the mall, turns me so I’m square with him and he puts his hands on my shoulders. I can feel the pout swelling in my bottom lip.
“I wanted to,” he says. I drop my chin, but he lifts it fast. He bends enough to bring our eyes level.
“Not because I wanted to shower you with presents or pamper you or whatever, but because I know what it feels like.”
My eyebrows pull in.
“I get the pain of having a parent let you down. I know how it feels when other people are watching, but more than that, I get how it might seem everyone is watching even when they’re not. I wanted to take you out of that situation because I care about you, and I know how it feels. And I don’t want you to feel like that. Okay?”