Page 279 of Rock Me All Night
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For some bizarre reason, Drew parks in the corner of the empty fourth floor of the garage.
The thought of heading to the beach in a bikini is enough to send me into full blown panic. I push everything else aside so I can focus on staying calm. I'm not committing to anything. I'm just trying on swimsuits.
The tile floor squeaks under my rubber soles. There are two department stores with swimwear sections, but I head straight for the specialty shop on the first floor. The woman at the counter is in her forties. She looks at me maternally, like she's going to warn me to wear sunblock.
She studies Drew as if she's trying to place him, then turns back to me. "Are you looking for something in particular, Miss?"
"Do you have anything with a skirt?"
She looks at me funny, like it's strange for someone my age to want a swim skirt. Thankfully, she makes no commentary, instead pointing me to a section in the corner.
It narrows my options considerably. There's one style and the skirt is only barely long enough. It's a lot of fabric, sure to cause enough drag to make swimming difficult. I allow myself a minute to imagine the possibility of wearing a regular swimsuit. Is there any world where I can care so little about the angry red marks that line my thighs?
Drew gives me space, hanging out by the register and making conversation with the saleswoman. She smiles at him, charmed by his personality, his looks, or his potential for commission.
I pick out a reasonably cute purple halter top swim skirt combo and motion to the dressing rooms.
She waves me over. "You sure you don't want to try anything else?"
"How about that one?" Drew points to a tiny black bikini. "Unless you'd rather skinny dip at our place?" He smirks.
The saleswoman plays a strong poker face.
"That would never hold my boobs." I turn back to the dressing room.
"You could try it. See if you like it." He pulls it off the rack and hands it to me.
"No."
His expression softens. "Are you going to hide forever?"
A crick develops in my neck. "You don't get a say in what I wear."
"Maybe something more supportive." The saleswoman points to a not so T&A-revealing black-and-white polka-dot bikini. "This brand has a few different cuts you can try." She pulls a huge handful of tops and bottoms from the rack and leads me to the dressing room.
In the locked stall, I strip to my underwear. Drew is too fucking pushy. He's always like this. It's usually more endearing than it is frustrating, but right now I can't deal with the extra stress.
The purple swim skirt is just long enough to keep me covered. The waist is too high and the top sits funny on my shoulders. It's not the most flattering and it's certainly not the most youthful, but it's a swimsuit I can wear without a panic attack.
That's something.
The mirror in here is too small for a really good look. I fight a sigh as I step into the main area. It's right at the back of the store, in view of Drew, the saleswoman, and anyone walking past us.
Drew makes eye contact immediately. "You look great." He shoves his hands into his pockets like he's on his best behavior.
I don't look great. The bottoms gap at the waist and pull at the hips. The top is too big and too tight all at once. The only good thing about this swimsuit, besides the color, is its ability to cover my upper thighs.
Drew comes closer. He's still a few feet away.
I turn back to him so the mirror is out of my eyeline. "I look like an old lady."
"Like a MILF."
I laugh despite the sense of dread in my gut. "It's exhausting hiding this all the time."
He moves closer. Much closer than is appropriate in the middle of a store with the saleswoman glancing in our direction.
