Page 59 of Fun Together
Ten minutes later I’m stepping out of the dressing room in a shirt that looks like it was pulled straight from my dad’s closet in the nineties. “I don’t think purple is my color,” I say.
“It’s not that bad. It’s just not . . . you.”
“It’snotme, because I’m not allowed to wear any of my own clothes.”
“No need to get grumpy. We’ll find something new that’s still you.”
I’m not so sure about that, but I go back to try on the next thing, a blue and white striped button-down. It’s as soft as a worn-in T-shirt and I still feel like myself in it. I step out of the room and do slow spin. “Survey says?”
She doesn’t say anything and stares at me for a few seconds. I wonder if I completely misjudged, and the shirt looks terrible. But then I see her eyes do a slightly imperceptible scan of my body and I wonder if she might actually be checking me out. I resist the urge to make a teasing comment about it for fear that she’ll stop looking at me.
Her voice is a bit gravelly when she says, “I think that looks really good.”
“Perfect,” I say as I turn to head back inside the dressing room.
I reluctantly change back into my old shirt, not wanting to take off the new one if it means Faye looks at me the way she just looked at me.
When I come back out, we swap places so that I’m now sitting on the bench outside the dressing room.
“Thanks for your help,” I say, in an attempt to drown out the sound of clothing falling off her body. I look up at the fluorescent lights to will myself not to think about the fact that I’m about three feet away from a half naked Faye. “Maybe I can wear this on my date this weekend.”
“With the woman your mom is setting you up with?”
I watch her bare feet move around in the space between the bottom of the door and the floor. Her toenails are painted cherry red. “Yeah. We’re going to a brewery downtown.”
Her feet stop moving and she doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. She clears her throat. “That should be fun,” she says brightly.
“Yeah. It should be a good time.” That’s what I’m hoping, anyway.
She comes out in a green dress that flows down to her ankles. “How do we feel about this one?”
I already know I’m going to like anything she puts on, but in an effort to not sound like a dog salivating over a potential meal, I say, “It looks nice.”
“I can’t look nice. I need to look ravishing.” She does a couple of turns in the mirror. “Too many ruffles.” She goes back in, and I hear the rustle of fabric. “I think I may need your help with this one. I can’t get the zipper up.” She cracks the dressing room door open so I can step inside.
This dress is black with little white flowers all over it and it’s much more form-fitting than the last one. The zipper starts at the base of her back and I drag it up, forcing my eyes not to snag on what I can see of her bra, pale pink with lace trim. Some pieces of hair have fallen out of her bun, and I brush them to the side so they don’t get caught as I bring the zipper to the nape of her neck. “All set,” I say, my own voice full of gravel now.
Our eyes meet in the mirror. One second. Two seconds. “Thank you,” she says.
We step out of the dressing room, and she asks my opinion on this one. I try to form a sentence but the only words I can seem to form are, “It’s . . . really pretty.”
It’s funny, because I always have something to say. But when met with Faye in this dress, I’m left without a single thought other than an embarrassingly caveman-like impulse to pull her close to me. This shopping trip has become the best and worst time I’ve ever spent with a woman.
“You’re right, you’re a terrible shopping buddy. Is it too revealing?” As she asks this, she adjusts the front of the dress, moving her boobs into a different position. My brain short-circuits.
“Um . . . you’re wearing this for your date with Cameron?”
I think part of me is asking this to remind myself that this dress isn’t for me. It’s for fucking Cameron from the fucking coffee shop with the fucking Instagram videos.
“Yes.” She turns to look at the back of the dress in the floor length mirror outside the dressing rooms. Do not look at her ass in the reflection. Do not look at her ass in the reflection.
“That’s a good date dress.”
Her shoulders droop and I worry that I’m going too far in a neutral direction with my comments and I’ve made her deflate like that. “I just want to get it over with.”
“Are you dreading it?”
“It’s not that. It’s just—I haven’t been with anyone since Andrew, and I want to get the whole sleeping with some part over with.”
