Page 39 of Forbidden Girl

That’s no shocker. “There’s a first time for everything. And no worries, I’ll teach you what you need to know.”

Shopping with Rowan is not the fun movie montage that shopping with Rose and Shannon is. She’s the type of person who goes into a store with a singular focus, purchases the items she needs, and leaves as quickly as possible. And she doesn’t like crowds. Crowds conceal threats. It’s raining, so the Maine Mall in Portland is extremely crowded. I don’t let go of her hand as we stroll through it, partly because I’m embracing my role as emotional-support human, and partly because holding hands in a mall is the most fantastically ordinary thing we’ve ever done.

Bloomingdale’s is her aesthetic. The more femme part of the women’s section is not. She’s uncomfortable in every dress she tries on—this is the third. And we’ve established that she can’t manage heels. It’s a problem. As much as I adore her high-end futch style, we need to go in the complete opposite direction to make the ruse work. “Okay, babe, we can do flats, but the dress is non-negotiable.”

“Yeah.” She’s standing tall and stiff in a black asymmetrical Armani. “Maybe something more trench coaty.”

Hmm. That might be it. “A belted sheath midi.”

“I have no idea what that is, Juliet.” She shrugs and screws up her features in confusion. It’d be cute if we weren’t shopping for a funeral outfit.

“It’s… more trench coaty!”

“Great. I’m taking this thing off. What is with these puffy ass sleeves, for real? It’s tulle. It’s tulle and it’s itchy.” She unzips and lets the dress fall to the floor.

“That’s a six-hundred-dollar garment. Have some respect.”

“Fuck it, it doesn’t respect me. It’s hideous and scratchy.” She pinches it off the floor, doing her best interpretation of the bend and snap—which I’m willing to bet she knows nothing about—and places it back on its hanger.

“Should I put my clothes on and go on a hunt for a trench coat dress or what?” she asks.

“No. You don’t know what you’re looking for. Stay here, I’ll go.”

“Thank you. For going along with this. And for loving me, even though I’m a FEMA-certified disaster area.”

To think she has to thank me for loving her, as if it’s a burden. “Don’t thank me for loving you. It’s not a chore, I’m happy to do it. And don’t thank me for going along with this, either. Once we’re done here, we’re hitting up a wig shop.”

“Red and curly or nothing.” She gives me an eyebrow wiggle.

Curly auburn isn’t in any way inconspicuous, but I’ll let her think it’s an option. “We’ll see.”

EIGHTEEN

ROWAN

We’re awake before sunrise; we have a two-hour drive to Forest Hills Cemetery in Boston and the service starts at nine thirty. I’m killing time waiting for Jules to finish up her routine, staring at myself in the wall-mounted gold antique mirror, and not recognizing my own reflection. The black “trench coat dress,” the long, pin-straight blonde wig, the oversized sixties Jackie Onassis sunglasses. I look like a taller, curvier version of Jules. I dig her style. On her. On me it’s ludicrous.

She comes out of the bathroom. I catch her behind me in the mirror. She’s dressed to the nines yet wolf whistles at me. It’s half sardonic, half legit. I lift the shades off my eyes and shoot her a glare.

“I mean, you’ve got legs for days.” She leers.

“This will be the first and last time you get to choose my outfit for me, so enjoy it while you can.”

She titters. “Oh, I am enjoying it. Kinda jealous that dress won’t fit me. I like it.”

“You could’ve bought one in your size.”

She approaches from behind and pulls me tight to her small frame. “I’m trying to train myself to rein in my spending. We might be poor soon if we go through with the whole pricey alter egos thing, remember?”

“I’m skeptical you have it in you.”

“I’ll have you know my favorite hoodie only cost me ninety dollars at J. Crew.”

I turn around in her embrace and laugh. “You get that ninety bucks is steep for a sweatshirt, right?”

She goes tsss but says, “Okay, yes.”

I lean in to kiss her. “We should head out.”

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