“I would have nowhere to wear something like that to.”
“Babe, all you need is a hand to hold. Everything else is irrelevant.”
I don’t respond, just continue to watch the dress until she walks away from me.
The store isn’t very large, yet I find myself getting lost in between the towering racks.
“What do you guys think?” I hear shouted out from behind me, coming from the creamy Taffeta curtains.
Sage comes up beside me, arms loaded with various articles of clothing. Then, turning around, we watch as Eden saunters out of the dressing room, her body barely concealed in a white lace bodysuit.
“I can see your nipples,” Sage deadpans, making all the women in the store spin around to catch a glimpse.
“Oh. Do they look pretty?” she asks, cupping her breasts, winking at the laughing cashier beside her.
Her energy and confidence are intoxicating, almost making me want to storm through the shop and grab every item of clothing I bypassed.
But confidence is a fleeting emotion, and it passes just as quickly as it comes.
Spinning around, I collide with Sage, who is on her way to the register to pay.
“You didn’t find anything you wanted?” she asks, eyeing my empty arms.
“No. Everything here is a little too….”
“Sexy?” she finishes, examining a pair of fishnet stockings, tracing the lattice pattern before adding them to her pile.
Yep.
And I don’t need to be sexy.
Truth be told, being around all the lace and satin is making breathing a little complicated.
Hand on my chest, I start heading toward the exit, jumping out of my skin when cold fingers wrap around my wrist.
“Where are you going?” Sage asks, concern dripping from her tone.
“I just need some air,” I say, telling her to text me when they’re done as I rush out of the exit.
The crisp breeze is like a splash of water on my face, but it doesn’t help the overwhelming nerves working their way up my chest and out of my mouth. The nausea comes on instantly, making me rush over to the nearest trashcan before I make a mess at my feet.
I don’t know if it’s luck or misfortune, but nothing comes out. Instead, I remain gagging over the bin until tears stream from my eyes and my stomach cramps from the pain.
“Are you okay, honey?” a woman asks me, rubbing her hand along my spine as she helps me out of the trash.
I pull out of her touch and nod my head, wiping the spittle away from my chin. “Yeah. I don’t know what happened there. Sorry.”
God. I hate that I apologize for everything.
“Well, let's get you cleaned up some. It looks like you got some shit in your hair,” she says, guiding me into the hair salon to my left.
Following her, I look at the ends of my hair and grimace, noticing white chunks and other liquids falling from my tips.
Great.
The salon is a vibrant white, with glittering, red polished floors that remind me of Dorothy’s slippers. It smells of harsh chemicals and banana-scented shampoo.
“I’m free right now. If you want, I could give you a fresh wash and dry for ten dollars?”
