TWELVE
COOPER
After speed dating—besidesbeing stuck in a loop of replaying how I almost kissed her, our lips mistakingly close, eyes pleading and speaking everything we (me) haven’t been able to say—I decided maybe a practice date would be better. A way to ease her into light conversation, becoming comfortable with small touches. Sutton hated the idea at first, but finally came around to it.
This is not a real date.
This is not a real date.
Repeating the mantra does little to convince me. It might not be a real date to Sutton, but it is to me. I’m above average at faking it. But this, I can’t.
Elliot lets me in. “She’s in her room.”
I snag a glass of water, exactly as I did on Thursday, then head down the hallway to her room.
“Elliot, can you come tell me if this outfit is okay?” Sutton’s voice floats from her bedroom, a nervous tick to it that makes my heart skip a beat. Is she as nervous for this as me?
This is not a real date, I forcefully tell myself again.
She’s staring at her reflection in a floor-length mirror when I peak in. “Better than okay,” I tell her, leaning against the door frame.
Eyes meet mine through the mirror, mouth pursed in a tight smile. She’s refusing to blush. The fight is in the way her hazels shift. It lasts one, two seconds. Freckled hands run down the front of the skirt, jaw clinching for a split second, and it’s obvious that she’s uncomfortable.
“It’s all Elliot’s,” she tells me. “I wanted to dress like all the other girls.”
The skirt is a color she’d wear, but far shorter and tighter. A ribbed, white, high neck tank is basic, but that’s not a word I’d ever use to describe Sutton’s style. I like the oversized leather jacket.
Does she look good? Yes, always.
Could I stare at her long, muscular legs all night? Imagine them wrapped around my waist? Without a second thought.
But she isn’t confident in her outfit which speaks volume.
I find confidence beautiful. Wearing what you want. Expressing yourself.
When she’s in her denim overalls over colorful T-shirts and sweaters, or skirts with thrifted graphic tees, completely herself, that’s when…that’s when I really can’t look away. Her aura is bright, and she commands all eyes on her.
On the bed is an assortment of clothes that I assume, recognizing some, are Elliot’s. Nothing of hers is in sight.
“You don’t need to dress like everyone else.”
“But that’s what guys want.” She sighs.
I push off the door frame and walk toward her. “Who told you that?”
“I watch it happen.”
“But no one has explicitly said you need to dress this way to be wanted?”
“No,” she mutters.
Sutton’s back brushes my chest as I step into her. I squat down, putting our heads side-by-side in the mirror. We stare at each other for a beat
“My style is weird.Whimsical,” she says the word as if it’s been used as an insult before. “Girly. Different.”
“It’s not weird. Truthfully, Dave, most guys won’t remember what you wear.” Sutton was wearing denim shorts with a strawberry print and a white T-shirt the first time we met. Her Velcro shoes lit up, and she was wearing white socks with a frill, as she still does today. “But if what you wear determines your beauty or if he wants you, then he’s the wrong guy for you.”
She sucks in a sharp inhale. “But what if I want to look beautiful?”
