Page 24 of Hooking Up with the Hockey Player

“Deep breaths,” Brit murmurs again, and I take a slow breath in and hold it for a few seconds before breathing out even more slowly. “Good. Okay, we’ll circle back to the part where you feel like you need to stop being yourself in a bit. I have to admit that I’m maybe not the best person to give dating advice. But my years of therapy have given me a few tools or at least ways of framing things that might be helpful for you. I can’t say I know what normal is or should be. The most important question, though, is how does this feel for you? Does it feel like too much? Or does it feel like something you want, but you’re worried about grabbing onto it because you’re worried about what other people might think or about some sort of external timeline you’re not matching? And if it’s the external things—other people or some imaginary timeline—why are you letting those things rule your life?”

“Ugh! I don’t know!”

Brit chuckles softly. “Let’s just focus on the one question that matters. Do you want to go?”

I sit with that question for a few breaths, slowing down my breathing in the process. “I … yes?”

“Why does that still sound like a question?”

Laughing, I shake my head, the certainty settling over me like a soft sheet, fresh from the dryer. “Yes,” I repeat more confidently. “I do.”

“Yay!” I hear Brit clapping faintly through the phone. “Good. I’m glad we got that settled. Now tell him that, and get your cute little ass over there!”

“Okay. But wait!”

“What’s the matter now?” I can hear the smile in her voice, but with the way she’s acted so far, I don’t think she’ll be mean to me for admitting my other concern.

“I don’t know what to wear!” It comes out as a wail, which is embarrassing, but at this point, I don’t even care anymore.

“Okay, well, it’s marshmallows around a fire, so casual. It’s still warm out, so I’d go with shorts, but bring an extra layer for if you stay late enough for it to get cool. But if you’re worried about it cooling off too much, you could go with those linen pants you like to wear sometimes. Not too hot, but a layer of protection for the evening.”

I chew my lip, considering. “Which would you pick?”

She chuckles again. “Personally, I’d go with shorts. High waisted cut offs, if you have them. And either a crop top or just a T-shirt, then I’d bring a sweatshirt or a flannel and tie it around your waist. It’ll look cute and casual, give you some nice waist emphasis, and show off your curves. Not too heavy with the makeup, your usual look is great, but maybe a bolder lip just for fun? There’ll be kids there, so you don’t want to look super sexy, but also it’s kind of a date, so you want to look good, right?”

“Right,” I breathe, standing and moving to my bedroom so I can dig through my clothes to see if I can find anything that works. “I don’t think I have cut offs. Or a crop top. My clothes are kinda boring.”

“Oh, Anna,” Brit sighs. “I’m not sure who or what has you convinced that there’s something wrong with you, but your clothes are fine.”

I snort. “Are you sure about that? Weren’t you just telling me last night that my clothes make me look forty-five?”

Brit sucks in a breath. “I’m sorry about that. Really, I am. Your clothes are very classic. I promise we can find something that you’ll feel good in. That’s why you bought the clothes you have, right? Because you feel good in them?”

I pause in the middle of pulling all my shorts out of my drawer. Is that why I bought them? “I guess?” I answer, but the truth is, most of my clothes have been picked to help me feel anonymous. They’re mostly neutrals, solids, and simple cuts. No frills or patterns or graphic tees for me. Though I did buy that one red top because I thought it looked good on me …

“Okay,” she says slowly, like that’s another thing she wants to get back to later. “I’m … okay. Let’s get back to your shorts options. What do you have?”

“Hang on.” I spread out the shorts from my drawer on the foot of my bed, immediately setting aside my workout shorts. Those are definitely not one of the choices. “I have three pairs of linen shorts in black, olive, and khaki, and a pair of denim shorts that I don’t really like.”

“No denim, then,” Brit says decisively. “I think olive. And then, oh, do you have like a brick red or rusty orange top? That would be perfect. And then maybe a cream sweatshirt to tie around your waist?”

Perking up and feeling better about this idea already, I turn to my closet, zeroing in on that red shirt I was just thinking about. “Yeah. I have a red top. It’s not cropped, though.”

“That’s not a big deal. If it’s too long, tuck it in so you don’t look like you’re drowning in your clothes, though.”

“Got it.”

“Okay, I’m going to let you get changed. Send me a pic of your outfit before you go! And if you have cream or nude sandals, I’d wear those. Or sneakers. But pics either way!”

My anxiety kicks up again, but I don’t protest this time. “Thank you so much, Brit. I really appreciate your help.”

“What are friends for?” she quips. “And I look forward to a full rundown tomorrow over crepes!”

Grinning, I nod. “Sounds good. See you then.”

Once we’re off the phone, I unlock my phone and respond to Troy.

CHAPTER TWELVE

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