“Oh.” I look down at my clothes. He’s right: black jeans, black tank top, combat boots. Every day, unless I’ve got a date, and then it’s usually a little black dress of some kind. “Nothing.”
“I don’t know. Black is one of those colors that blends in, especially in the city. I think you don’t really want to be seen.”
“Thanks, Freud.”
“It’s funny, though.” He chuckles. “You make these beautiful, vibrant dresses with all these bright colors and patterns. And then you dress like that.”
“Hey,” I begin, feeling defensive.
He shakes his head, eyes smiling. “I’m not saying you don’t look hot. You always do—”
Wait.What?
“—but it’s interesting. You say you don’t use clothes for self-expression.”
“Or maybe my soul is black, did you ever think of that?” I pop a spring roll in my mouth with a smirk, waiting for him to laugh. But he doesn’t.
“Why don’t you wear your own designs?”
I look down at the box of takeout in my hands. “I used to. A long time ago.”
“What changed?”
“Mark didn’t—” I pause, wondering how much to share. I don’t want to give him more ammunition to mock me. But his gaze is gentle, and I feel my defenses lower, ever so slightly. “Mark didn’t get why I loved all the colors and the whole fifties thing. And when he talked me out of opening a store with my own designs, I guess… over time I just stopped wearing them altogether.”
“That’s really sad.” Myles’s brow folds. “He made you feel shitty about the thing you love.”
I shrug, stuffing noodles into my mouth. He’s going to pick this apart now, like everything else. He really does like to talk, doesn’t he?
“You should wear them again. Make yourself a dress you love and wear it. Fuck Mark.”
A smile touches my lips.
“You talk this big game about integrity and honesty,” Myles says, setting his food down. “But then you dress to hide your true self. You’re at odds with yourself.”
I give an indignant huff. “I don’t hide—”
“Yeah, you do. It’s like when you’re on dates and you don’t show your true self.” His eyebrows settle into a knowing look. He’s back in smug mode and it riles me.
“Well, what are you saying with your clothes?” I gesture at him with my chopsticks. “That you’re some sort of overgrown-adolescent skater-boy?”
“You think I look like a man-child?” he says, mouth tilting up at the corner, not at all bothered by my attempt at a dig. “Why, because I wear a cap sometimes? Because I have tattoos?”
I sigh, out of ammo. “I don’t know.”
Something shifts in his expression and his eyes glint at me. “Would you prefer I dress in a suit, like a pompous prick?” He doesn’t mention Shane’s name, but we both know that’s who he’s referring to.
“Maybe you should,” I say, meeting his challenge.
He juts his chin out. “I’d never change the way I dress for a woman. I won’t change who I am for anyone. Not even you.”
I scrunch up my nose, bewildered. Not even me? What doesthatmean? I survey his stony face, wondering what on earth we are even talking about now.
“Ugh, I’m sorry.” His eyes soften. “I’m not trying to argue with you.”
“Yeah. Sorry for calling you a skater-boy.”
He chuckles. “It’s okay. I’ve never skated in my life, but I guess wearing a cap makes me one.” He turns his hands up helplessly and I laugh. “It’s just… I don’t know why you won’t just be yourself. With your clothes, with guys—whatever. What are you afraid of?”
