Page 26 of Two Guys, a Girl, and a Tripod

Moira stands next to a rack of clothing beside the little fitting rooms, her hands flying over the hangers. She's mumbling to herself and I’m not entirely sure she heard me walk in. When I clear my throat, she jumps, confirming my suspicion.

“Oh!” Her hand clutches at her chest as she spins to face me. “Brody, sorry. I was making sure I had everything.” She waves at the clothes. “Well, everything I'm supposed to have today.”

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” I say with a warm smile.

“Oh no, it’s my fault. One track mind and all.” Moira picks up a pair of tan slacks and a short-sleeve, beige, button-down shirt. “Here, put these on.”

I take the items and turn toward one of the three dressing rooms, but Moira stops me and hands me a dark brown belt with a gold buckle.

“Now go.” She nods and I do as I’m told.

The clothes feel foreign on my body. I’m used to denim jeans, cotton shirts—things I can throw in a washing machine without a second thought. This stuff probably all has to be dry-cleaned. I step out from behind the curtain, fighting the urge to shake my headwhen I see my reflection. I don't look like myself, but I have to admit that I do look good. Maybe Miles was right.

Moira contemplates the clothes, leaning to one side, her hip popped out. One arm is crossed over her stomach, the other elbow resting on it while her chin rests on her hand. It's the ultimate studying pose. She hums as she thinks.

“Please tell me what’s going through your head,” I groan. “Awful, right? I knew this was a bad idea.”

“No, it’s good!” Moira waves her arms when I try to retreat into the dressing room. “This is perfect, I was just thinking what else we can do with-” She cuts herself off. “Never mind, I think the length of those pants is perfect. How does the shirt feel?”

“It feels,” I wiggle my shoulders, “good, I guess?” I like the way the soft material flows against my skin.

“Good.” Moira turns to the rack and hands me another pair of pants, black this time, and a light blue button-down shirt. This one looks more fitted. “Next.”

We go through a slew of clothing, including eight pairs of shoes for which Moira gives me express instructions. Wear the brown leather tennis shoes with these pants, not those. Never with that shirt. This shirt would look even better with these pants and this belt. A few pairs of pants and two shirts still need tailoring, but the rest are perfect. She has more coming in over the next couple of weeks, but we'll set an appointment to try those on.

I’m going to need a chart for all of this.

When I leave Moira’s shop an hour later, it’s with the knowledge that my items will be delivered this afternoon, except for those in need of alteration. Those will arrive on Wednesday. I have to hand it to Moira and Miles. The clothing does look really good and the speed with which much of it is going to be delivered is nuts, though I guess that’s part of what I’m paying for.

I lean my head back against the headrest, closing my eyes. My phone vibrates in my pocket and I take a deep breath before pulling it out to check.

I smirk at the screen, glad to know we’re going through the same thing. Images flash in my mind of this woman’s body in various outfits, trying on sun dresses and short skirts and shorts and low-cut tops. I have to stop thinking like that in public.

I respond quickly and apologize for the fact that she’ll need to placate her roommate, but that we’re definitely on. I just tried on a million outfits myself, so it’s only fair. I pray the clothes will be delivered in time for me to wear something new tonight. Miles’ and Isla’s comments from the other day have me feeling self-conscious about everything I’ve ever worn. Ever.

When I get home, Miles is sitting on the couch, staring at the television. His head whips around as I walk through the door, but his face falls when he sees me. I grin, reading his mind.

“They’re delivering the clothes in a few hours.”

“Oh thank god,” Miles sighs. “I thought you’d changed your mind.”

“After everything I went through on Friday? Absolutely not. You and Isla would kill me.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny that your sister and I have a murder pact.”

I roll my eyes and join him on the couch.

“Don’t you have to work?” Miles eyes me.

“I’m on call. I needed a mental health day if I was going to try on a hundred and one outfits I didn’t even want in the first place.”

“Decided what you’re wearing tonight? On yourdate?” Miles draws out the last word with his trademark, shit-eating grin.

“You’ll be here all day, right?” I ask.

“No, I thought I’d leave you alone before your first date in like three years.”

“Two,” I mutter.

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