“Try these three,” she insists, pushing me into the little room. She retreats into another room with a few articles of her own to try on.
It is daunting being surrounded by this many mirrors. I don’t even know which one to look at.
As soon as I try the first option and realize that it fits, I decide to skip the other two and get this one. Shoes and accessories are a bit more difficult due to all of the variations in styles and details. Claire’s capable hands make the selection for me. I don’t care one way or the other. Once the ensemble for the Mark Tanner date is complete, we run through the displays of clothes, grabbing more stuff to try on to add to our wardrobes.
“Here, try this on; you look awesome in this color,” Claire announces, handing me a cranberry intentionally-holed sweater.
“Um, you do wear something under this, right?”
“Of course.” She giggles. “A bra.”
“Classy,” I grumble. I make a mental note to get a tank top.
“Or just accessorize with nipple jewelry.” How she says that with a straight face, I have no idea.
“Oh yes, stupid me,” I answer sarcastically. “Hoops or studs?”
“Um,” she turns to examine the fabric more closely. I start to think that she is completely being serious. “I would go for hoops, personally. Studs might snag it. Or rip your nip.”
I can’t help but roll my eyes.
Thirty minutes later, I’m in line with three pairs of skinny jeans, two pairs of leggings, five shirts, three sweaters, four dresses, and all the stuff that I need for tonight. When the cash register lady informs me that I owe $3,465, I nearly pass out. Claire whoops loudly, pumping her fist in the air, as if her favorite sports team has won.
“I was expecting much higher.”
“I guess there is a ‘mega-sale’ going on,” I mumble, using overdramatized air quotes at mega-sale. I pass my Visa gift card to the worker and pray that I can use what I am purchasing on future dates—freeing up the need to go back to this wallet wasteland again. At least for a few months.
We walk along the sidewalk bordering the river and make our way to the car. We load up the trunk with our purchases and settle in for the drive back home. The new sound of an incoming text startles me as Claire enters the on-ramp that leads over the Fremont Bridge, nearly hitting the driver in front of us who is yielding appropriately.
“Whoa,” I squeal, grabbing the above-the-door strap to brace myself. “Easy, Claire.”
“I have the right of way.”
“You clearly don’t,” I counter.
“Well, I should.”
I look down at my phone as soon as the car stops shaking. When I see the name of the sender, I groan.
Dad: Angela, I would love for you to come home for a visit. I promise to be on my best behavior. I know you are still mad. Please call me. Love ya.
My pulse quickens at the words. I don’t have a home. No, my home was sold without even my knowledge or opinion. Guilt seeps through me like poison, hitting every crevice available for the taking. He has texted two days in a row. It’s a record for him. Part of me wants to believe that he has changed or is at least ready to seek help. The other part of me wants to withdraw, knowing deep down that pleasing me with his own good health is not his top priority. I pocket away my frustration and focus on mentally preparing for my date. If I don’t compartmentalize all of my emotions, I will never be able to function.
Once home, Claire works her expert hands on my hair and makeup, dolling me up. “You know, it would be pretty funny if you showed up tonight wearing the exact opposite of what Mr. Picky Pants requested. You know, like thick leg warmers, a tacky tunic, and clown makeup.”
I laugh at the thought, agreeing with a slight nod, careful not to mess up the progression of the twisted updo. “I’ll do it, if you do it,” I tease, knowing that her goal as of twenty-four hours ago is to reel Ethan into her net, whether she acknowledges it officially or not.
“Rain check. I’m totally game in the future,” she agrees with a cheeky smile.
“I was joking,” I state without fluctuating my volume.
“Too late.” Claire gives a little shrug implying that I set myself up all on my own. “I’m holding you to that too. But, lucky you, I’ll wait until it’s not a first date to collect my entertainment.”
She can’t be serious, but she is. Claire smooths the final touches on my ensemble, making me twirl and practice walking. “Well, Legs, you’re smoking hot. Even a guy with a broken penis and erectile dysfunction would be able to see that. I have a serious hetero-girl crush on you.”
“Is that even possible?”
“Totally, you are a—”