“There you are.” I turn to see my dad coming out of the restaurant, his irritation obvious. He glances at Fable and his jaw hardens. “I thought we weren’t finished with our conversation,” he says to me pointedly.
“Oh, I am so sorry—I thought you two were done.” Fable steps right in like a good little girlfriend, slinging her arm through mine and nestling that hot body close. Her breasts press against my side and she gazes up at me adoringly. “I need Drew’s help. I can’t make up my mind which pair of shoes I want to buy.”
She’s good. Not two minutes ago she was complaining about how she hates shopping, and now she’s the simpering girlfriend who can’t make a shopping decision without my input.
“I assume they’re for tonight, then?” Dad asks.
“What’s going on tonight?”Great.I don’t want to put on a show for anyone. Bad enough we have to fake this for my dad and Adele. It’ll feel like the grand performance if we take this public.
“A special early Thanksgiving dinner at the country club. I told you about it the night you arrived.”
No way do I want to go. Sounds like a special sort of hell. “I don’t know…”
“I insist,” Dad interrupts, wearing that expression that says no arguments allowed.
“Sounds fun.” Fable tightens her arm around mine, but I hear the tension in her voice. Tonight sounds like a special sort of hell for her, too. “What should I wear?”
“Something semiformal. Cocktail casual.” Dad beams, like he knows he’s making Fable uncomfortable and confused, and that’s so fucked-up. “I’m sure you have a pretty dress somewhere in your bag of tricks.”
“Dad.” I’m pissed at the way he talks to her, but how do I stand up to him? I never really have before because shit, he’s my father. He’s all I have in this world.
He ignores me, no surprise. “Adele will want the two of you home by five to ensure we’re all ready in plenty of time.” Dad glances at his watch. “I have a meeting with a client in thirty minutes. I’ll see you two later.”
We watch him walk away in silence, Fable still snug at my side until he’s gone. She slowly pulls away and I immediately miss her.
Stupid.
“I have nothing to wear for some fancy cocktail-party-dinner thing.” She sounds stressed out. “You didn’t tell me to pack anything like that.”
I should have. I’m an idiot for forgetting. My plan wasso last-minute, I forgot all sorts of shit. “I’ll buy you something,” I offer. “Let’s go look around. We have time.”
She shakes her head. “No way. You’ve spent too much money on me already. I’m not about to have you buy me some expensive cocktail dress for a one-time-only event. I’m not playingPretty Womanhere.”
Funny thing is, we sort of are. I’ve seen the damn movie—who hasn’t? I’m pretty sure Richard Gere’s character paid Julia Roberts a.k.a. the prostitute three thousand dollars for her to pretend to be his girlfriend. Bought her a bunch of clothes, too.
The similarities are undeniably there.
“I don’t mind.” I grab her hand and give it a squeeze. She’s watching me with a funny look on her face, like she can’t believe I voluntarily touched her without anyone around to see us, but fuck it.
I need her to know that not only is she helping me, but I want to help her, too. I don’t want her to be uncomfortable. I don’t want my parents to put her down or make her worry she won’t fit in. It’s bad enough that we both know she definitely doesn’t fit in.
But I don’t feel like I fit in here either. On the outside I might, but on the inside? Not at all. No one knows the shit I’ve gone through.
And I plan on keeping it that way.
—
We find one of those trendy expensive chain stores at the very back of the exclusive outdoor shopping center where I originally dropped her off. Fable is semi-comfortable there; she knows the store and even though she says it’s expensive, it’s not as bad as most of the other shops that line Ocean Avenue, so I agree.
The place is huge, filled not only with clothes, but also home stuff like bedding, towels, knickknacks, and a bunch of other pointless bullshit. Fable makes a beeline to rack after rack of dresses and she’s moving frantically, grabbing one after another and slinging them over her arm, the wooden hangers clanking against each other as she walks.
“Hey.” I keep my voice low as I approach her and she pops her head up, her eyes wide. “There’s no fire. We have plenty of time.”
She exhales loudly and shakes her head. “I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m going to need your opinion on this.”
What do I know about cocktail dresses? “I’ll help you,” I offer because I know I should.
“Okay. Like, you’ll have to lurk around the dressing rooms and actually see me in every dress so you can tell me how I look. I can’t do this alone.” She looks downright frightened. “Thank God they have a bunch of stuff out for the holidays. Hopefully one of these will work.”
