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Authors: Pauline West
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it.”
“Beren, I can’t afford this kind of stuff,” I said, goggle eyed. Without stepping a foot in the store I could tell that everything inside cost three digits, minimum. The golden bracelet Steve had given me as a good luck charm before moving to Charleston was the fanciest thing I owned. I’d never had anything fancy near my body.
(Except Ry Calhoun.)
“What’d we say, bitch,” he said, fondly. “I. get. to. pick. out. your. outfit! Besides, I know a guy. I got your back. If we find anything good, we get 75% off.” He beamed at me, pleased as punch.
“Oh my god, you are amazing,” I said.
“Right on cue, girl.” Beren held the door, and for just a moment I let myself fantasize about walking back into Ry’s arms as easily as I was walking into the store.
I saw my reflection pause there in the window, and almost didn’t recognize myself. The girl I saw in the glass was smiling.
“Chandler, what can we do about this?” Beren bellowed. “My lady here is a descended goddess, but she dresses like a damn soccer mom.”
“I’m wearing shorts and a tank top, what are people supposed to wear in the summer?” I said.
Chandler came down the aisle of the store. He was pale and serious looking, but devastatingly handsome in a rock star sort of way. He had a narrow nose, bright, intelligent eyes, and a sidecut that draped down over one side of his face like a bird’s wing. The effect was devastatingly glamorous.
He was wearing shrink-wrap-tight black jeans, a slim black shirt with cutoff sleeves, and old, clearly beloved black combat boots. He was years younger than Beren.
“Honey, bless your heart,” Chandler said to me, softly. He touched my shirt gently, as if checking the material for flaws. “Well, don’t worry about that,” he said, pulling his hand back slightly.
“Worry about what?”
“So let’s see… you’re built like a little minx, aren’t you? Long and lean. And what is the big event?” Chandler said, glancing over at Beren.
“The hottest date of her life,” Beren said.
“Oh, okay! That means we need you in something tight-tight , to bring out those curves.” Chandler headed smoothly towards a rack of dresses near the register, his glossy black jeans attractively tight against his long, coltish legs.
I trailed him shyly. “I don’t know if I have any- I mean, these? Are not curves. I’m hardly a B cup.”
“It’s all about the nipple and the shape, honey, not volume,” Chandler said, smiling over his narrow shoulder at me. “Just like a glass of champagne. Think of it like this: would you rather have the very best, or just a whole bunch of,” he waved his hand, “flippy-floppy, fizzless… volume?”
“Well, I never thought of it quite like… that…”
Like a couple of record aficionados, Beren and Chandler began carding through racks of clothes. It all would have looked right at home on somebody like Hazel. But clearly I was a lost cause- now and again they’d glance over at me, holding up a dress. Then they’d shake their head and put it back.
I was hopeless. Soccer mom for life.
I wandered over to the wall, admiring a display of tan dresses posed beautifully on mannikins. Each was accessorized with tortoiseshell sunglasses, a python purse, and strappy python heels.
I don’t like to feel vulnerable, so I’ve always been uncomfortable wearing tight dresses and high heels. But this color combination looked cool, ever so slightly bitchy, and effortless. I loved it in spite of my wallflower sensibilities, and tucked the color story away in my mind.
Wondering how Hazel was doing, I tugged out my phone and texted her.
“Hey bae,” I wrote, “how you feeling today?”
“so much better!” Hazel typed back instantly. “how was your
“Beren, I can’t afford this kind of stuff,” I said, goggle eyed. Without stepping a foot in the store I could tell that everything inside cost three digits, minimum. The golden bracelet Steve had given me as a good luck charm before moving to Charleston was the fanciest thing I owned. I’d never had anything fancy near my body.
(Except Ry Calhoun.)
“What’d we say, bitch,” he said, fondly. “I. get. to. pick. out. your. outfit! Besides, I know a guy. I got your back. If we find anything good, we get 75% off.” He beamed at me, pleased as punch.
“Oh my god, you are amazing,” I said.
“Right on cue, girl.” Beren held the door, and for just a moment I let myself fantasize about walking back into Ry’s arms as easily as I was walking into the store.
I saw my reflection pause there in the window, and almost didn’t recognize myself. The girl I saw in the glass was smiling.
“Chandler, what can we do about this?” Beren bellowed. “My lady here is a descended goddess, but she dresses like a damn soccer mom.”
“I’m wearing shorts and a tank top, what are people supposed to wear in the summer?” I said.
Chandler came down the aisle of the store. He was pale and serious looking, but devastatingly handsome in a rock star sort of way. He had a narrow nose, bright, intelligent eyes, and a sidecut that draped down over one side of his face like a bird’s wing. The effect was devastatingly glamorous.
He was wearing shrink-wrap-tight black jeans, a slim black shirt with cutoff sleeves, and old, clearly beloved black combat boots. He was years younger than Beren.
“Honey, bless your heart,” Chandler said to me, softly. He touched my shirt gently, as if checking the material for flaws. “Well, don’t worry about that,” he said, pulling his hand back slightly.
“Worry about what?”
“So let’s see… you’re built like a little minx, aren’t you? Long and lean. And what is the big event?” Chandler said, glancing over at Beren.
“The hottest date of her life,” Beren said.
“Oh, okay! That means we need you in something tight-tight , to bring out those curves.” Chandler headed smoothly towards a rack of dresses near the register, his glossy black jeans attractively tight against his long, coltish legs.
I trailed him shyly. “I don’t know if I have any- I mean, these? Are not curves. I’m hardly a B cup.”
“It’s all about the nipple and the shape, honey, not volume,” Chandler said, smiling over his narrow shoulder at me. “Just like a glass of champagne. Think of it like this: would you rather have the very best, or just a whole bunch of,” he waved his hand, “flippy-floppy, fizzless… volume?”
“Well, I never thought of it quite like… that…”
Like a couple of record aficionados, Beren and Chandler began carding through racks of clothes. It all would have looked right at home on somebody like Hazel. But clearly I was a lost cause- now and again they’d glance over at me, holding up a dress. Then they’d shake their head and put it back.
I was hopeless. Soccer mom for life.
I wandered over to the wall, admiring a display of tan dresses posed beautifully on mannikins. Each was accessorized with tortoiseshell sunglasses, a python purse, and strappy python heels.
I don’t like to feel vulnerable, so I’ve always been uncomfortable wearing tight dresses and high heels. But this color combination looked cool, ever so slightly bitchy, and effortless. I loved it in spite of my wallflower sensibilities, and tucked the color story away in my mind.
Wondering how Hazel was doing, I tugged out my phone and texted her.
“Hey bae,” I wrote, “how you feeling today?”
“so much better!” Hazel typed back instantly. “how was your
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