“Shit,” is all I manage.
“Don’t be too impressed. I’m not good at it.” His voice is light with self-effacing laughter as his mouth tugs downward for a second.
“How? Isn’t it like impossible to be bad at therapy.”
His bottom lip thrusts out into a pout that causes me to snort a laugh. “You’re being mean, Ave.”
“And you love it.”
“I do,” he says, then sighs. “I’m on my fourth therapist in eight months. The first two weren’t a good fit, the third, well, she said I talked about you too much.” He blushes at this admission even as heat pricks at my own cheeks. “And this one I’m with now is great. She calls me out when I don’t put in the work or try to avoid topics by deflecting with humor. It’s not like I expect to be handed the answers, but I didn’t expect to be so exhausted after my sessions.”
“Sounds like you’re getting the hang of it to me.”
“Well, there’s still plenty of time for me to fuck it up.”
He slows and gracefully maneuvers into a parallel parking spot in front of a glass front shop with a red sign wrapping around the top with Time Capsule Vintage written in large white letters. “We’re not here to talk about me. We’re here to get you a newwardrobe. I thought that this place would have the best options. The vintage stuff reminds me of what you used to wear. You know, those shirts with big sleeves. But if nothing is good here, we’ll go somewhere else.”
“Are you sure you don’t have anything better to do than take me shopping?” I ask, opening the car door and getting out onto the sidewalk.
“Nope. There’s no place I’d rather be than playing dress up with you.”
14
Avery
September 2025
“This is ridiculous. I don’t need to come out in every outfit,” I say, examining myself in a mirror. The denim jumpsuit has a heart cut-out in the back and snuggly hugs my ass without feeling like it restricts my movement.
“If you can’t show me, then how are you going to show a crowd?” he asks, his voice still clear, despite the velvet curtain separating the dressing room from the seating area.
The main difference between him and thousands of people? History? The way I can hide from them and he always sees through me.
I steel myself and step out. Besides us, it’s empty, other than the man at the counter waiting for us to finish.
Technically, the place was closing for the day when we arrived, but Wes flashed the owner a thousand dollars and like magic, we have the store all to ourselves for an hour.
“What do you think?” I climb onto the pedestal in front of the mirror and turn, stopping when I face him.
Wes is sitting with one arm draped over the back of an orange couch, with a pink boa around his neck that he somehowmanages to make look good. He holds up a whiteboard that he got from who knows where with10000/10scribbled on it. It’s silly, but it does something for my confidence.
“I’m a fan. But the more important question is, how do you feel?”
“Good.” I nod. “I think we might need to do some tailoring around the bust,” I say, picking at the loose fabric around my boobs.
When we were making the bucket list, I never actually thought clothes would make such a difference. But Wes bringing me here reminds me of when I would choose my clothes the night before going to Dave’s and I felt good. My outfits were an extension of me, and anytime someone walked into the bar when I was singing, I wanted them to know exactly who I was.
“I doubt that will be a problem. This is our show, Ave. There’s no need to bring in any baggage you want to leave behind.”
“What’s your angle with this, Wes?”
“I don’t have an angle. I just don’t want to waste any of the time I have left with you.”
His words hit me in an odd way. The more we are around each other, the more I realize how differently we see this situation. I’ve felt like we’ve been out of time for years, but he seems caught in the middle, standing in the hourglass as the sand sweeps out from under him.
“If that’s all, you better make the most of it. Go find something to try on. You’ve been sitting on your ass while I’ve been putting in the work.”
“Oh, I’m in.” A smile stretches across his face as he rises to his feet and heads toward one of the neatly arranged racks of clothing.
