Page 31 of Make The Cut

Somehow, it feels less like an apology and now more like he’s trying to reassure me of something that I haven’t quite let myself believe. “Okay. Apology accepted.”

“Great. Then let’s go shopping.”

* * *

The front door of Kitson, the famous L.A. boutique on Robertson Boulevard, swings open. I gaze up at the blue lettering on the white storefront before walking in behind Naoya, who holds open the door for me.

I don’t know if it’s customary for clients to go shopping with their stylists, but Naoya insisted on tagging along when I told him I was going. I didn’t mind, since it meant he drove and endured L.A. traffic. That way, I didn’t have to fight the urge to curse at every bad driver who cut into my lane or suddenly slowed down in the middle of a busy street while it was a green light.

Baby-blue Kitson bags dangle from the arms of the two women who walk out the door, wearing oversized sunglasses and an aura of fame. I wonder if that’sactuallyJ. Lo or just a really good lookalike. Then again, the store is famous for its celebrity clientele, having paid host to Paris Hilton and Halle Berry just as the paparazzi so happened to be lying in wait.

“Welcome to the perfect location to have people speculate about who you are,” Naoya leans down to whisper to me as we start browsing through the racks of clothes.

The 2000s are back because I spy low-rise jeans everywhere. I shudder at the memory of struggling to pull a t-shirt low enough to cover my hips during assemblies on the gym floor in high school.

“I don’t think they’ll speculate once they see you.” I go over to the men’s section and start pulling out random items, holding them up to Naoya. “Hm… Do you think orange is your colour?”

He laughs. The item I’ve pulled out is either a crop top or shrunk in the wash because it would probably just reach his belly button. “If you wanted to see my abs, I would gladly oblige.”

“Nope, I already saw them onTMZ.” My tone is deadpan as I put the orange t-shirt back in its place, but a smile curves my mouth involuntarily at his quip.

“It’s better in real life.” Naoya follows me as I browse through the clothes, looking for something for him to wear the next time he gets spotted by the paps. “How about this?”

I stare at the offending item in question, an olive-green jacket. “Have you ever driven a truck, gone fishing, or hunted your own Thanksgiving turkey? Because that’s what wearing that jacket suggests.”

“Geez, at least it’s not camouflage.” He throws it back, leaving the poor salesgirl to rearrange things behind us.

“I see why not having a stylist was such an emergency for you now,” I joke. I stop suddenly to look at a display of sunglasses, and he bumps right into me, so close I can feel his breath fan over my neck. Memories of the watch party, when he wouldn’t give me back my Kindle, and the strange things he said, wash over me.

I never did ask him what he meant byyou’re making me lose my mind.

After a few minutes of going through the store, I’ve grabbed an armful of stuff and laden him down with the clothes and orders to go try them on. Meanwhile, I browse through the store’s other offerings: belt bags, which are also back in style; Juicy Couture hoodies (why?); and a sequined bomber jacket that is actually kind of cute (if you’re JoJo Siwa).

“Naoya, are you done?” I ask after twenty minutes have passed. “How are you doing in there?”

No answer. I walk over to the fitting room and gingerly tug on the curtain, peeking inside—

Oh, my gosh.

I am never doing that again.

Mostly because Naoya Sugawa wasnotinside that dressing room.

It was two celebrities; one happily married (or supposedly so) and the other a supposedly single actress.

Well, this day just got way more exciting.

Chapter Sixteen: Naoya Sugawa

I’m tugging a hoodie over my head when I hear something bang against the wall next to me. As I pull the sweatshirt over my torso, I turn to the side, frowning. What is happening in the dressing room next to mine?

Just as I come out of the dressing room, I see Poppy standing in front of me, her expression looking like that of a child with their hand in the cookie jar, her cheeks flushed.

“There is acouplein there,” she says in a low hiss before giving the names of those involved.

A married man and a young, single actress.

I blink once. Twice. I always wait for the emotions not to hit me—for me to realize that this wound is over, that this scar has faded, that the hurts have healed. But they never do. Every time I’m reminded of my father’s infidelity feels just as bad as the last.

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