Page 24 of Fake As Puck
Shit. I didn’t mean to make it sound transactional. Except it is transactional. That’s literally what this is. I just feel bad for all the effort he’s put into this. I can tell he’s panicking.
“I just meant—”
“It’s fine,” he says, sliding pancakes onto a plate. “I was making them anyway.”
We eat at the kitchen island, and the conversation flows slightly better than last night. He tells me about his off-season training routine. I tell him about the freelance article I’m supposed to be writing about sustainable fashion, which is ironic since I’m about to go shopping for a dress I’ll wear once.
“Ready for some retail therapy?” he asks, loading our plates into the dishwasher.
“Define ready.”
“I thought we’d hit Target first. They have a decent selection.”
I stare at him. “Target?”
“Yeah. One-stop shopping. Convenient.”
“West. Target is not a boutique.”
“It’s not?”
“No. It’s where you buy toilet paper and pillows.”
“I buy good stuff at Target.”
“You buy clothes for a wedding at Target?” I question, doubting it.
“They have good clothes.”
“West. This is a wedding. Your friends are going to be there. I need to look like someone you’d actually date, not someone you picked up at Super Target.”
He looks genuinely confused, which is oddly endearing. “Where do normal people buy clothes?”
“The mall. Department stores. Places that have fitting rooms with actual mirrors.”
“Target has fitting rooms.”
“True, but…”
“The weddings casual,” he says, grabbing his keys. “Let’s try Target first. Maybe you’ll be surprised.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m standing in the women’s section of Target, surrounded by racks of dresses that range from “suburban mom” to “teenage prom disaster.”
“See?” West says, holding up a floral sundress. “Options.”
“That dress is having an identity crisis.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“It can’t decide if it wants to be cute or conservative or fun. It’s trying to be everything and succeeding at nothing.”
“You’re very judgmental about clothes.”
I grab a few dresses that seem like they might work and head to the fitting room, which is exactly as grim as I predicted. The lighting makes me look like I have jaundice, and the mirror is slightly warped.
The first dress makes me look like I’m cosplaying as a 1950s housewife. The second one is too tight in weird places and too loose in others. The third one might work if I were attending a funeral.
“How’s it going in there?” West calls from outside the fitting room.
