My parents and my little brother turned on the couch to stare at me wide-eyed. Like a chicken had just walked in on them devouring a bucket of KFC.
Dad snatched the remote from Stevie and quickly hit the power off button.
The picture of the three men on TV disappeared, and Mom turned her attention to the laundry basket in my hands.
“Did you want to do a load of laundry?” she asked with an apologetic wince. “I just put one in for your little brother. But the washing machine should be free in an hour.”
I blinked. Numbly.
Then I said to my brother. “Don’t forget to come back on Saturday with your truck. The thrift store opens at 10 a.m.”
“Honey, you’re not really going to go through with that, are you?” Mom glanced at the huge Je T’aime Tourdin box that had been sitting in our living room since some international delivery service dropped it off while I was at work. “I mean, you didn’t even open it, and you’re just going to give all those clothes away to some thrift store?”
I loved my parents. And it wasn’t their fault that they’d raised a too-trusting idiot for a daughter and a grown son with a shared apartment and truck who still came over every Monday to have Mommy take care of his laundry.
I knew that they were doing their best under the very weird circumstances. But I just couldn’t tonight.
“I’ll come back in an hour to put in my load,” I muttered to Mom before returning to my room without a word.
However, I ended up falling asleep before the hour was done. That night, Mick showed up at our door with a smug soccer player who looked exactly like him to explain that Paris had all been a big misunderstanding. Of course, he hadn’t lied to me. Mick truly was a power company electrician who loved me. And Andy, the soccer player, was just somebody who looked exactly like him.
But, of course, it was just a dream…
I woke up at five a.m. the next morning in the same bedroom I’d had all my life and a burning need to get to work early.
Anything to fill up this endless expanse of time.
Unfortunately, though, I was all out of laundry, having not put in a load since, like, a week before the trip my father refused to let me skip.
Which was how I came to find myself back in the living room at the crack of dawn, grumpily opening the Je T’aime Tourdin box with the sole intent of grabbing a top and bottom. Just one outfit to get me through until I washed my clothes that night.
But the sight of the box’s contents stopped my heart.
There weren’t just a few outfits for work but an entire wardrobe on a standing rack.
The bottoms were pretty much what I’d seen on the runway: fashionable trousers, ponte pants, and pencil skirts, but the mostly black offerings had been swapped out for winter shades I’d never tried before, like electric blues, quilted emeralds, and deep amethyst purples.
In my shopping life, bottoms had always been a sturdy purchase. I only bought standard colors that could match anything. But I could immediately tell that these eye-catching shades would pair well with any of the colorful tops hanging on the rack alongside them.
The blouses and shirts were even more vibrant—a colorful array of perennial trends like peplums, tie fronts, and scoop necks. They were all more than appropriate for work but could easily be dressed down for play, too.
I stared open-mouthed at the collection—all tailored to my measurements—and suddenly understood the true meaning ofcouture.
Even before I donned a frost pink jacquard top and paired it with a velvet plum skirt, I knew that I’d look like a million bucks in anything I wore out of this box of perfect-for-me clothes that Mick had handpicked himself.
And I wasn’t wrong. A few minutes and one shower later, I found myself in front of my back-of-the-door full-length mirror, staring at a woman who was outwardly smart and capable with a happy personality.
Usually, I settled for wearing brightly colored underwear beneath my otherwise drab work clothes. But this outfit felt like a reflection of my true personality. The real me.
Was this how Mick had seen me? Even as he was using me all along?
I knew that if I told you everythin’, you wouldn’t understand that I was the exception to your new rule.
Mick’s words from the Tourmaline argument whispered through my mind, breaking through the wall of numb I’d constructed around myself since returning early from Paris.
But then another voice invaded my mind.
“When you think about it, it was really quite brilliant. He shows up in Paris with this unknown woman and acts like he’s completely in love with his holiday fling. The French press goes crazy. Meanwhile, he’s showing the AS Paris Triomphe two things: One, he can fit in with their club’s culture—he’s not an antisocial psychopath as he sometimes comes off as here in England. And two: he can attract media and fan interest. With this holiday fling story, he was basically showing Paris Triomphe: Look, The Atomic Foot might be creeping up on thirty and heading into his sunset years, but he’s a great player and a right interesting media personality who can put bottoms in stadium seats. Definitely worth that massive payday he’ll be receiving from the French club…”
