Page 37 of Fall Wherever They May

Throughout our game, her laughter plays on like a melody. I’m only allowed to feel the top of the shoes and the rim of the hats. I have a suspicion she is making these rules up as she goes because these weren’t the ones we started with. I’m being a good sport, doing as the boss woman says. We come to a dead stop. Slowly, I peel my eyes open. As I glance at everything in her hand, my eyes spring wide. A booming laugh escapes my mouth.

“Now, go put all of this on.” She shoves the clothes at me haphazardly.

I look down at the them. I don’t know what I thought was going to happen once I picked everything out, but there is no fucking way I’m putting this shit on. She’s out of her ever-loving mind. It’s not that I’m stuck up; it’s just the thought of putting on someone else’s clothes that makes my skin crawl. Probably because that’s all I was afforded as a child. With one raised brow, she gestures her hand toward the dressing room. I want to put up a fight, but I know it would be useless.

I give her a scathing glare. “Fine, but you’re next!” I point at her.

My gaze lingers on the clothes hanging on the hook and the hat laying on the dressing room chair; I hesitate. The shoes aren’t that bad; they’re stylish, though they’re way too small. I’m going to look like a complete idiot; my hesitation isn’t about that. But, to hear her laugh, I would do just about anything. A long inhale fills my lungs.

Am I fucking doing this? Reluctant, I stand with my hands on my hips, making no move to change.

“Just put it on, Hotshot, and don’t look in the mirror,” she calls out on the other side of the dressing room door.

“You’re still making up rules as we go, I see.”

I change into the atrocious get-up. This is stupid; I don’t need to look in the mirror to know how ridiculous I look.

When I step out of the dressing room, Aspen immediately bursts out laughing. She’s bent over, one hand on the arm of a chair, holding herself up. She pauses; her face is red with tears streaking down. Then, she burst into more uncontrollable laughter. I know it’s bad, but damn, how bad can it be? I face the mirror, catching sight of myself. I try to hold it in, but a laugh flies out of my mouth. I look completely unhinged, sporting a purple blazer with faux fur on the lapels, Hawaiianshirt with flamingos, neon green golf shorts, and a silk scarf decorated with tiny snowmen and Christmas trees tied around my neck. The brown leather dress shoes don’t fit at all, so I wear them as slides with my feet resting on the heels. An ugly black hat topped with big purple peonies rests on my head. She snaps a picture with her phone.

My eyes widen, and she laughs. Reaching for her, I try to grab the menacing device from her hand, but she pulls away—twisting her body one direction, then the other. I wrap her in my arms, swinging her around, as I try to pluck the phone from her hand. She squeals and shoves her device into her pants.

“Oh, you laugh now, little missy, but paybacks a bitch. You better not send that picture toanyone.” I set her to her feet.

“Only if you wear that the entire time I pick,” she volleys.

Taking the scarf from around my neck, I turn her around. I lean in as I place the silk fabric over her eyes and whisper in her ear.

“I don’t trust you not to peek.” I tie the silk around her head.

When I turn her back around, she’s biting her lip. I wonder what her lips would feel like.

Shaking the thought, I guide her to the most hideous items I can find, making up my own rules as we go. Aspen comes out of the dressing room, looking utterly ridiculous. She’s in a white, nineteen-nineties, poofy-sleeved, mid-length, floral dress, a pair of baggy khakis, a green boa draped over her arms, and resting on top of her head is a vintage red beret with a red veil and feathers. The heels are sexy, though. I take picture after picture of her posing ridiculously. My body is shaking in laughter, so half of these are probably going to be blurry. I feel life breathed into me.

“Hold on,” she says, plucking the phone from my hand.

Aspen asks the store clerk to take our picture. The old lady chuckles as she takes several of us together. Aspen retrieves her phone and angles it above us. I bend down to her height and she takes a selfie of us cheek to cheek.

“You two are just adorable together,” the little old lady says.

Both of our eyes widen. We burst out laughing again. We put back all the items, and I slip the little old lady another one-hundred-dollar bill for her time. Then race Aspen to her new Range Rover, plucking the keys out of her hand on the way. Rounding the SUV, I open the passenger side door for her, holding out my hand to help her in. She hates it when I do this because she says it’s not a “friend” thing to do. Whatever. I’m doing it anyways; I guess I’m old-fashioned.

“I can drive, you know?”

“Pfft. Tell that to the front end of my car,” I counter.

“So, tell me more about you.”

I hesitate, “I grew up in Washington and went to college in Seattle, where I was drafted into the NHL. My rookie year, until about three and a half years ago, was spent playing for Colorado. Then, I was sold in a fire sale to your dad. I’ve been in New York ever since.” I keep it brief, not wanting to relive the depressing details of my life. It’s just not something I share with anyone. “So, what we did back there, you’ve done that before?”

“The game we just played?” She asks chuckling, and I nod my head. “Oh yes. Where I’m from . . . well, you see, it’s a very small town. There are literally two stoplights . . . wait, no, three actually, but one of them is a blinking red and yellow light that doesn’t work anymore. Anyways, there’s really nothing to do close by, so when River and I were bored, we would go to this old consignment store on Main Street and play that game; we’d use the pictures as blackmail.” She laughs.

“So, you lived in Washington and in Colorado. What was it like in Colorado?”

I immediately want to shut down. Seeing the perfect opportunity to keep her out of my past, I pull into her favorite coffee shop. “What’s your favorite coffee?” I ask, jumping out of the car to avoid any more questions about my life.

“White chocolate mocha latte.” Her face lights up.

We stroll into the coffee shop, and once we’ve ordered, I hand my black Amex card to the barista. While we wait for our drinks, I open my cell to make sure the store I’m looking for is within walking distance. With our coffees in hand, we head out the door.

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