Page 62 of Wild Pitch
“U-Um.” The curtains shift but she doesn’t come out. “I can’t show you this one.”
My perverted mind runs through a host of possibilities why, all of which make me squirm.
“Why not?” I ask, clearing my throat.
“Because I look like a potato sack and you’ll laugh.”
I expel all the air in my lungs and uncross my legs to lean my elbows on my knees. “Listen, I must see this now as payment for all my efforts.”
Shit. She groans again. I know it’s supposed to be in complaint but I don’t know what’s happening to me, because it hits me very differently.
But then she slides the curtain open and?—
I blow a raspberry and burst out laughing.
She huffs and folds her arms. It makes the thick, burgundy puffy dress deflate against her body. “I told you.”
“Wait, wait.” I grab my phone from the sofa. “I need to immortalize this.”
“The hell you do.” Quick as a rabbit, she hides back behind the closed curtain and prevents me from saving digital proof. It’ll live forever in my mind, though.
“I found a couple of more casual button ups you can try,” the saleswoman says, reappearing from my left.
One of the shirts is white and the other light blue, closer to the one I’m wearing. This time I do rise to take them. “Thank you. Can I use the dressing room next door?”
“Of course!”
I trod over and also hide behind some curtains. This store is so swanky that the dressing rooms are the size of my bathroom, complete with another little sofa, floor to ceiling mirrors on two walls, and more brass hangers than any other dressing room I’ve seen since I can afford to go to stores with them.
As I unbutton my soiled shirt, I can hear the slide of fabric against skin right next door. I lift my eyes to my face on the mirror. The stark hunger reflected there scares me—I didn’t even know I had been suppressing it until it shows itself right this moment.
I run my hands down my face, forcefully rearranging my features to literally anything else. Garcia has trust me to be her coach, her glorified wing man. The last thing she needs is for me to betray that trust by trying for something else.
Sighing, I toss my shirt on the sofa and grab the nearest one of the options. More rustling sounds from next door as I slide my arms in the new shirt.
“Oh!” The inflection in Garcia’s voice is weird. New. “I think this is the dress.”
“Yeah?” I stop moving. “Let me see.”
Unlike any of the previous times, she slides the curtains resolutely and I follow in her example. We walk out of our dressing rooms at the same time and both of us turn into statues.
Her long hair is swept forward over her shoulder, looking even softer than the fabric of the fancy dress.
But that’s what she wanted me to see, so I shift my attention lower. I have no idea what this kind of dress is called but I’d define it as Oh Shit. It’s tight. Everywhere. Every single of her curves is demanding attention and yet, the dress wraps her from her neck all the way to her knees. It’s even long-sleeved. It only has one flaw, though.
“It doesn’t seem to have pockets.” Once more I’m proud that I can get clear words out, even though my mouth desperately needs another sip of that tea.
“That’s not what’s important here,” Garcia says with an odd pitch to her voice. “Why the hell are you like that?”
“Huh? Like what?” I look up at her face.
The answer is in her pointing her finger at me. I look down again. “Oh.” Right, I was in the middle of trying on this shirt and didn’t even button it. I grab the bottom button and start working my way up without meeting her eye. “Anyway, is that the dress or do you want to try the others?”
She clears her throat twice. “No, I think this is the one. And the price tag didn’t make me want to faint.”
“Good.” Once I’m done with the buttons, I work on tucking the shirt in my jeans and look back up at her. “Then, stay wearing it. We need to get you shoes now.”
Her eyes fly from my hands, one holding my jeans so they don’t droop and the other one doing the tucking, back up. “But doesn’t it look okay with my white sneakers already?”
