Always.
Striding to the left and straight into the pants section, my eyes sweep across rows of perfectly pressed trousers hanging like silk curtains—charcoal wool, navy cashmere, cream linen.
"Ah, perfect," I say out loud when I find what I'm looking for.
I scoop up my find and march over to formal tops. Shelves of premium shirts stretch out in perfect symmetry. All the colors of the rainbow are on display. But the color I'm looking for isn't in the rainbow.
I'm going for an all black look. It's classic. Timeless. And most importantly,forgivingafter all the baking and stuffing of my face I intend on doing over the holidays.
I find my size and am tempted to head straight to join the line to pay and get the hell out of here. But then I think: what if Minari rich-people clothes sizing is different from H&M regular-people clothes sizing? The store doesn't reopen until after NewYear's Eve, so there's no way to come back and swap what I bought for something that's the right size.
Fearing I've already thought it into existence, I exhale heavily and trudge over to the fitting area.
Inside, the fitting room is so spacious it feels more like a personal lounge than a stall. Pale-oak walls run floor to ceiling on either side, and the gap under the frosted-glass panel door makes the space feel airy rather than enclosed. There's a discreet horizontal slot near the door handle, which I assume is for allowing clients and sales associates to pass garments through.
It's all super fancy and oddly calming.
That's a good thing.
I'm not claustrophobic on the same level Sky is, but I'm not the biggest fan of small spaces either. I think some of his fear might have rubbed off on me over the years, but it's more of a strong preference to avoid enclosed spaces rather than something I absolutely have to do. Not like him and elevators. He'll always take the stairs.
Well, except for one time…
But in here, I don't feel squished in or like I'm about to run out of air at all.
I place my messenger bag on a white leather Barcelona-style chair, get undressed, and try on the clothes I picked out. I rotate my shoulders and shimmy my hips, checking for movability. As much as I want to look good, the older I get, the more I value comfort. I'm turning twenty-eight next year, which officially pushes me out of mid-twenties intolate-twenties, so it's comfort all the way, baby. I wonder if Crocs do lifetime memberships?
Satisfied I'll be as comfortable as I can hope to be in a crowded nightclub with hordes of sweaty, drunk strangers, I study myself in the full-length mirror, adjusting the collar of the $300 shirt. Part of me feels guilty about the exorbitant price—the pants are more than triple the cost of the shirt—but then Iremind myself that Sky has plenty of money and wants to do this. Giving is his love language, so I need to believe him when he says I deserve something good after all the shit I've been through this year.
I take myself in.
I've got dark-blond hair that I keep short around the back and sides and a little longer on top. In summer it goes golden, but it's a dull, not much of anything color now. My skin is pale, and a few freckles are scattered over my slightly too big nose. A few small moles dot the side of my neck, one just below my jawline, the other two a few inches down.
The one thing I can honestly say I like is my eyes. They're a rich ocean-blue gift from Grandma Elsie who I loved more than anyone else in my family. They're even slightly asymmetrical just like hers were, too.
My phone buzzes, and I know it's Sky without having to check. I am not going to send him a selfie, which is what he'll be hounding me for. I try to be okay with how I look, but Skylar Hawkins is next-level gorgeous.
Even though we've known each other since we were three, I can't help but get slightly self-conscious around my bestie. Sky doesn't get it because Sky is the only person on planet earth who doesn't see how freaking stunning he is.
I'll message him once I'm out of the store with anOops, sorry. You'll have to wait until New Year's to see metext.
I unbutton the shirt and place it on the mahogany hanger when a discreet tap on the glass door startles me.
"Excuse me, sir?"
The rich baritone makes me shudder…in an unexpectedly nice way.
"Yes?"
"There's no rush, but I just wanted to inform you the store has now closed."
The words come smooth and velvety, like chocolate fondue.
"Oh, right. Okay. I'm almost done."
"No problem. I can take your items and have them rung up for you at the counter if you like."
"Sure. I just need to, uh…"Take off my pants.
