She sets her jaw and flicks my arm. “No, you adorable nincompoop.But,” she says, glaring for all she’s worth, “for starters, you can’t lock yourself in a room when things get a little hard. You’ve got to face the things that are hard and show them you’ve got it in you.”
I pull a pillow over my face. I don’t even know if I could dothat.
She pulls the pillow off my head and whacks me with it. “This is the bullshit I’m talking about. Use your fucking words.”
“That’s my entire problem!” I sit up and face her. “He wanted to talk to me about it, but all I could think about was the fact that I would never get through the conversation without becoming a blubbering mess. It hit every doubt I have about myself.”
“Okay, but blubber you can at least work with. If you go silent and hide, there’s nothing to work with, only speculation. And stop acting like having doubts is the same as not being able to do it.”
“But I don’t wanna be a blubbering mess in front of everyone,” I blubber, proving my point.
She reaches over and grabs some tissues from the bedside table, handing them to me. “Well, too bad. Maybe a blubbering mess is all you’ve got to work with right now. But if what you say has value, and helps them on their missions, I don’t think these are the kind of guys to hold a grudge. You show your chops, and I guarantee they’ll respond.”
I sniffle loudly, and she pulls me in for a big hug. “Now, now. Let’s get you calmed down and cleaned up and let’s walk back into that living room like we own it.”
I whine, because I’m just going to fully give myself over to the drama, apparently, “I can’t even do that—they didn’t bring any of my cute clothes. All I’ve got are these things that are five sizes too big on me.”
She shrugs. “To be fair, this is how you’ve been dressing for as long as I’ve known you. But if you want some options, I might be able to help you.”
* * *
Parker says that if I want to make a stand for myself, I should wear something I feel good in. Sounds reasonable, but I don’t know what I really feel good in anymore. I hate what I’ve been wearing, and I have no idea what to do about the future.
Thankfully, Parker found an old Singer in the hallway closet and has cut down and resewn a huge T-shirt of mine, then brought over from her room a pair of acid-washed jeans and a cute leather jacket to try out. I’ve seen her wear these jeans before, and while they look cool and vintage on her, they’re just an eyesore on me. I do peg them, which is cute, and pair them with my lace-ups, which are more comfortable than the stupid cowboy boots.
Parker is lying on the bed, hand to her chin, head tilted to the side. “Yeah, the acid wash is too much. Here,” she says, shimmying out of her rolled-up skinny jeans. “Let’s switch.”
I take off my shoes, step out of the unfortunate acid-washed jeans, and grab the dark-washed ones, pulling them on. I glare at her in disgust. “How is it you look good in acid wash? They didn’t even look good in acid wash in the eighties.”
“Just special, I guess. But this outfit is perfect—it’s very hipster vineyard retreat.”
I lace up the shoes and pull on the leather jacket, deciding I won’t remind her this is less of a retreat and more of an escape fromand witha bunch of murderers. And that’s not even taking into account the specific murderer I’m equally crazy about and pissed off at.
Taking a big breath, I check myself out in the mirror, prepared for, well, exactly nothing. But…okay. I like this outfit.
I actually like it a lot.
My friend gives me the brightest smile, following it up with a warm hug. She holds up her finger. “Wait here.”
She leaves and comes back quickly with a sort of hybrid hipster-cowboy felt hat. “Now, I know this is too fancy for what we’re doing now, but I want you to consider there has not been a single person who hasn’t looked amazing in this hat. You must try it on.”
We stand back in front of the mirror, and I put the hat on. Well, damn.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been this fashionable in my entire life.”
“I believe you.”
Looking at the hat, the jacket, the reworked T-shirt, the jeans that actually hold up without needing a belt, and the simple leather lace-ups, I turn to her and ask, “So it’s really all about things fitting properly, isn’t it?”
She bites her lip, rolling her eyes. “Pretty much. Let’s not focus on the fact it took you to the age of thirty to pick up on that one critical detail and just welcome you to the party.”
I laugh and shoulder her, removing the magical hat but still enjoying the overall effect. She fusses with my hair, making a few adjustments before she’s happy. “Okay, no more hiding in the back room. Dinner is almost ready, and you’re going to go out there and interact with people normally, and you’re just going to be the cool person I know you are.”
“So, leave the bottom-of-the-ocean-fault-line guy…”
“For when we aren’t in crisis mode,” she says wisely.
We walk into the living room, linked arm in arm, and are greeted with wolf whistles and appreciative clapping. To be fair, she did wear the magical hat, and it looks amazing on her. I catch Everett out of the corner of my eye, but I’m still a little too sensitive to make eye contact.
