She opens the bag and checks inside, probably to make sure it’s empty. She doesn’t think I’m lying, but she probably can’t believe she’s getting a brand-new purse just for putting my name on the paper and driving me home after the fall. “Wow. I need to write your mom a thank-you note.”
“If you give it to me, I’ll forward it to her,” I lie. Then I text Marketta.
–Me: I need something to wear to La Mer tonight. Plus some pajamas.
–Marketta: PJs for you?
She adds a shocked emoji.
–Me: Yes. Also my date needs a dress, shoes and everything else a woman needs for a night out.
–Marketta: If you have a date, why would you need pajamas?
–Me: Har har. Just do it, okay?
I’m not explaining my personal life to Marketta even if she is like the grandma I never had.
–Marketta: All right. Her coloring, height and size?
–Me: Red hair. Green eyes. Really pretty. 5’6”. I dunno her dress size.
–Marketta: But you know her bra size.
I can just picture her stifling a laugh.
–Marketta: I can’t dress her if I don’t know her size, but I can see why you don’t want to ask. Just send me pics of her, then. Full body. Front, side and back. Make sure she’s standing straight. I need her shoe size, too.
–Me: I can do that.
–Marketta: Where are you staying?
–Me: At Mom’s. In Malibu.
–Marketta: She must love you.
Marketta is delusional.
–Marketta: Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be there in 2-3 hours.
* * *
While Marketta does her shopping magic, Aspen and I have a leisurely lunch at a small beachside restaurant that has the best cheeseburgers and fries in the area. But better than the food is her smile, the relaxed twinkle in her eyes as she looks at me. Getting away from the campus was a genius move. No pressure, no friends around, and we aren’t concerned about anything but us. And I want there to be anus, because she’s making me feel things I’ve never felt before, things that make me high.
When we’re back in the house, I get a text from Marketta.
–Marketta: Arriving in ten.
Perfect timing.
Marketta shows up with her assistants, who get busy rolling in racks and racks of clothes and boxes of items—probably shoes and accessories. Marketta’s a petite blonde in her sixties, but you’d never know from looking at her. Her thick platinum hair is pulled into a tight chignon, and she’s fashionably thin and wrapped in a purple Versace, her favorite brand. Her motto is she has to look as good as her clients—if not better.
“Grant. You always look amazing.” She comes over and gives me air kisses on both cheeks.
“Good to see you.” I return the air kiss on her cheeks, careful not to touch the pristine layers of makeup.
Her eyes land on Aspen. “And your date for the evening…?”
“Hi. I’m Aspen.” Aspen extends a hand.
