Page 23 of Make The Cut

“What’s wrong with having quiet interests? I’m not looking for a guy who wants to hit the club every weekend.” Mostly because I’m not looking for a guy atall, but if I were, he wouldn’t be the frat boy type who likes to get wasted and hit on girls every Saturday night.

“There’s a lot of men who don’t like to go clubbing but still aren’tboring,” Sasha says, her nails clicking against her phone screen. “You don’t even have any cute pictures of yourself! Colie, what are we going to do with her?”

Colette sighs, shaking her head. “There’s only one thing we can do.”

Sasha clears her throat. “I don’t think raiding the fashion closet is an option. Cynthia said she ordered the security guards to escort you off the premises if you ever came within fifty feet–”

“No, not the fashion closet atLa Mode,” Colette says. “We have to have a photo shoot right now. I’m sure Poppy has lots of nice clothes. She just… doesn’t have the time or energy to cobble together a nice outfit right now. So, we’ll do it for her.”

“Guys, I don’t need–”A boyfriend. A dating app. Aphotoshoot. “Any of that.”

“Nonsense, you’re as addicted to clothes as you are to caffeine,” Sasha says. “Are you really going to say that you’re happy to go on a date wearingthat?”

I glance down at my current attire. A t-shirt of indiscernible age, bearing holes and stains from some kind of spill, accident, or malicious prank played against me, paired with a pair of jeans that were dark-wash when I bought them but now are so faded and distressed they look like I picked them up at Goodwill. “You got me there.”

“See,” Sasha says proudly. “Come on, Poppy. Live a little. You look like you’re about to, I don’t know, trip over the sidewalk and fall face-first into your grave.”

My eyebrows scrunch up at her hyperbole. “Do I lookthatbad?”

“Yes,” Colette and Sasha say.

“Your concealer is either terrible or you’re so tired that you’ve stopped bothering with makeup,” Colette adds.

“Both,” I say. I haven’t bothered to find a new concealer since high school when I was buying makeup from CVS.

“Well, just sit back, relax, and let us work our magic, then,” Sasha says. “Did I tell you I took a cosmetology class in high school?”

“That explains your eyes,” Colette snarks, her tone light. Sasha’s eye makeup is gorgeously blended and the wing on her eyeliner is sharp enough to cut a man. “Come on, let’s go get this girl adate!”

I groan and let myself be dragged toward my romantic fate.

* * *

“So, I guess your date with Rose wasn’t a success?”

A week after I ran into him in the tea room, I crouch down next to Naoya Sugawa’s pant leg with a tape measure in hand. The position only brings back memories of when we first met. How far we are from those two people now: him, a world-famous pop star. Me… still tailoring his pants, only with slightly better pay and my own apartment.

“Oh, I’m sure it was a success forRose.” His tone is blithe. We were all blinded by the enormous diamond ring on her hand when she came into work the day after her impromptu engagement. “Don’t worry about me, Red. I have no shortage of dates.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re starting to believe what the tabloids write about you?”

“And what do they write about me?” Naoya looks down at me with a twinkle in his eyes and a chuckle escaping from his lips.

I write down the measurements for his inseam before moving onto the outside of his leg. “They say you’re the most handsome, brilliant, musically talented pop star of this generation with the voice of an angel, of course.”

“And do you agree with them?” A coy smirk plays on his lips as he hops from one foot to another.

My fingers fumble with the measuring tape. “Can you hold still?”

“Can you answer my question?”

“I thought we were friends. Friends don’t generally show romantic interest in each other.”

“I was asking you to tell me if you agree with compliments that people say about me, not show romantic interest. Friends compliment each other.”

“As your stylist, this seems extremely unprofessional.” I take down the measurements and finish writing down the length of his pant leg. “Can you put your arms in a T position?”

He obliges as I measure the breadth of his shoulders. “I’m going to take your blush as you agreeing with the tabloids.”

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