Page 72 of Brazen Mistakes

Everything I try on has her handing things I haven’t even tried on back to the associates and calling for new items to be brought back.

The guys sit in near silence on the giant ottoman, trusting Summer with my appearance. And if they wander in and outas the process lingers, I can’t say I blame them. It’s taking forever.

“Can you explain what you’re doing?” I ask, shimmying out of a pile of tulle and handing it to her, as her perfect pink lips turn down. She shoves the dress through the curtain to a waiting attendant.

“Clothes are armor,” she says, handing me a black velvet halter dress that will have at least five extra inches of fabric trailing on the floor once I put it on.

She helps me into it, zipping up the back, her stick-straight blond hair swinging over her shoulder as she motions me to spin on the tiny platform in front of the mirror. I do, kicking the fabric to make sure it’s not underfoot. Her ice princess act is making me skittish and anxious, and I don’t know how to turn it off.

“While I get the metaphor,” I say, “how are you deciding which dresses look good on me? I’d like to do this without help at some point. No offense, of course. I need the help. But as much as I like this fairy godmother treatment, I want to learn, too.”

“You can pull off black,” she says, unzipping me.

I step out of the dress, weirdly comfortable standing there half naked in front of a stranger after who knows how many dresses I’ve tried on and discarded today. “Can’t everyone?”

“Nope. I look like an undertaker when I wear black. It’s probably the same for Trips and Jansen.” Demonstrating, she holds the dress I just took off up to her face, and her creamy skin immediately turns sheet white.

“Weird.”

She shrugs, sticking the dress out of the curtain, where it vanishes. “Color is weird. At least Walker’s figured out which colors work well for you. Dark, rich jewel tones make your skin glow and your eyes pop. So does black and the occasional cool, heady pastel. But if I were to dress you up in the colors that look good on me, you’d look hazy instead of clear. No soft summer blues for you.”

“Got it.”

“Or creams, camels, or warm browns. They make your skin red and patchy.”

“I always knew I hated beige.”

She hands me a corseted emerald gown with a smile, appreciating my attempt at humor, even if it isn’t worth a laugh.

As soon as she ties me into the princess dress, it’s obvious that I don’t have the boobs to pull this one off. We share a look, and she immediately unties me. “Now, we’re working out what fits work for your build.”

“And what are we learning?”

“That draping works better for you than structure. And that a deep neckline is probably going to be better than a sweetheart, boat neck, or crew neckline.”

“Won’t that look too mature?”

“On me, I’d look like I’m putting my goods up for sale. On you, it’ll look classy.”

Before I know how to answer that weirdly nonjudgmental comment on my lack of boobs when compared to her generous breasts, she scoops up the green fabric and leaves the changing room with it. It’s just me in my underwear, alone.

The dark circles under my eyes make me frown. I’m not good enough at makeup to make those disappear.My cheeks are thinner, my ribs faintly visible under my skin, and I know I should feel scared. I’m not supposed to look like this. I’m an athlete—food is fuel.

But what are you supposed to do when even your favorite foods taste like dust? When you don’t get hungry anymore? When sitting still long enough to have a full meal gives your mind time to wander places you sure as shit don’t want it to go?

Would a run kick-start my appetite? I know Walker’s been cooking almost nonstop since he got back, trying to get me to eat more than a single piece of bacon or three bites of last night’s delicious hearty stew.

But chewing is hard.

And if that isn’t fucked up, I don’t know what is.

Summer comes back in with a swath of translucent fabric in a red so deep it looks like it was dunked in wine. Or covered in half-dried blood.

It’s a brutal color, coupled with a texture more often associated with nightgowns and ballet skirts, and I reach for it, the texture whisper soft. She holds the fabric under my chin in the mirror, and I can see how the color makes my face pop like it’s in HD. Which, as nothing else has changed, is weird as all shit. “This is definitely an excellent color on you,” she says. “Should we try for fit?”

I nod, suddenly aware of how much color changes the way I look. The way I present myself. The way others probably see me.

Summer turns me away from the mirror as she shakes out the dress.

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