Page 18 of Eye of the Beholder

He smiles. “I know. Just go in. Find a pair of jeans that fit. Find a shirt that fits. Just…not a baggy t-shirt. And not gray.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

His smile turns into a grin; I didn’t know they were different things, but somehow they are. His eyes sparkle. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

7

Mina

Aperky brunette greets me as I enter, and I nod and force a smile. The store smells good, like some sort of fruity candle—much better than the store Cohen originally proposed, which even from outside reeked of too much cologne. I mean, I like cologne. It’s not even a daydreaming-about-cute-guys thing. The cologne I like—Cohen’s cologne, apparently—is a very soothing scent to me. Something about it is cool and fresh. It’s relaxing. Not that I would ever tell him that.

I have to swivel my hips to weave through all the racks of clothing, and when I look back I’m surprised to see that Cohen’s followed me in. Well, fine. He can sit and wait, and like every other guy who goes into a store like this, he’s going to regret it in under five minutes. I hope he brought his phone, because he’s going to get bored.I’mprobably going to get bored. Although I have to admit, there’s a lot of cute stuff in here. He was right; there’s a ton of floral.

I stop in front of the rack of jeans that takes up a long stretch of the right wall. I just stand there for a second, looking at all the options. The sooner I get this over with, the sooner I can find myself some clothes I’ll actually wear. None of this is going to look good on me. This stuff never does. I mean, it’s been a while since I’ve tried on clothes. But still. That won’t have changed. Although I do note as I scan the wall that high-waisted jeans seem to be in fashion, which is good news. They’re much more flattering than anything with a low waist. I don’t like to feel like I’m spilling out of my pants.

“Do you know what you’re doing, or are you just going to stand here?” Cohen says from behind me, and I jump, startled.

“I know what I’m doing,” I say, turning to him. “I’m not stupid. I can try on jeans without help. Go sit in one of those very plush chairs”—I nod to the cushioned chairs in front of the dressing rooms—“while I secretly envy you.”

Cohen shrugs and grins. “Just trying to be helpful.”

“Very altruistic of you. Go.”

Still grinning, Cohen meanders to the chairs and sits. I turn back to the rack of jeans, looking at the different cuts. I choose two pairs based solely on the material, because I do not believe in uncomfortable pants. It’s just not a good idea. Who wants to wear jeans you can’t even move in? But these claim to have “maximum stretch for maximum comfort and maximum style,” so there’s that. I take a stab-in-the-dark guess at my size, because I wasn’t joking; I haven’t tried on pants in forever. I’ve been wearing these jeans for years.

And, yes, maybe I can understand what Cohen means about the whole “baggy” thing. They’re not perfectly fitted. Or even well fitted, for that matter. But they’re soft and worn in. My guess is that they’re a size or two bigger than what would actually fit me properly, so I grab one pair of jeans in each size that might fit me and then go straight to the clearance rack. In the unlikely event I fall in love with any shirt I try on, I am not paying full price. Perkins women never pay full price for anything.

As I thumb through the clothes, I have to admit that there’s more cute stuff here than I expected to find—although “cute” isn’t enough. I’m not wearing something that requires a billion layers. I’m also not wearing something uncomfortable. I’m just not. No scratchy material for me.

I finally settle on two soft shirts—floral, of course—that look genuinely comfortable. And, more to the point, they’re 40 percent off. Then I make my way to the fitting rooms, swiveling through all the clothing racks again, and stop next to one of the rooms while I wait for the perky sales girl to stop talking to Cohen.

Of course he would find a girl to flirt with in the five minutes he’s been waiting. And she’s clearly flirting back. Whatisit about him?

I guess he’s got that confidence about him that draws people in. And the girl is cute. But justwatchinghow much energy she has makes me exhausted.

I can’t bring myself to clear my throat like my mother would do, so I drop all of my clothes on the floor and then say, “Oh, no!”

The girl and Cohen look to me, and I say, “I’m so sorry. I was just waiting for a dressing room. Who do I ask about that?” I scoop the clothes up as the girl casts one last regretful look at Cohen.

“I can help you with that,” she says, sounding slightly less perky than she did when we came in. “How many items?”

“Four,” I say, and she hangs a little tag on the door of the room she opens for me. Then she leaves me be—probably talking to Cohen again—and I take a deep breath.

It’s just trying on clothes. Not a big deal.

And it’s not, right? It really isn’t. If I don’t like them, I put them back. It’s that easy. And realistically, I’m not going to be able to wear my current clothes forever. My beloved jeans are on their way out. There’s a rip in the crotch that I patched a few months ago. The patch has held so far, but a crotch rip never bodes well.

I undress, not watching myself in the mirror, and pick up a pair of the new pants. Somehow, as silly as it is, this feels like a milestone. It’s just a different pair of pants, but…it doesn’t feel like that. It feels like I’m shedding some sort of outer skin.

Do I want to shed my skin?

I sigh and sit on the built-in seat that’s way too small to hold anyone bigger than a toddler. I think of my list. I think of my life.

I do. I do want to shed my skin. Not all of it, maybe. But some of it needs to go.

Because my comfort zone might be suffocating me. I don’t have friends; not really. I don’t ever go out. And it hits me: this isn’t even about Jack. I mean, Jack Freeman knowing my name would be a big bonus. But it’s not about him. I made my list before Cohen came up with this ridiculous idea.

That idea is comforting. I’m not doing this for Jack or for Cohen or for anyone else. I’m doing this for me. New clothes aren’t a bad thing. I feel comfortable in what I wear every day because I take comfort in going unnoticed. But do I like how I look in those clothes? No.

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