“Am I close?”
“Not even a little.”
“Running shoes.”
He eyes his sneakers. “I like them but not excessively.”
“T-shirts with sayings?”
He tips his head this way and that. “I do have a thing for expressive T-shirts, huh?” He’s wearing a royal-blue one today with a stylized white wave stenciled with the wordsFIND YOUR OWN WAVE. “But I could stop buying new ones and have zero regrets.”
I sigh. “I’m starting to think you’re one of those people who have no weaknesses,” I say, just as two girls burst into the dressing room area. Both give Ten a once-over before entering a changing room together, whispering animatedly.
“How many more outfits do you have in there, Nev?” he asks.
“Two,” she says, dragging the curtain open. “In this store.”
“There are more stores?”
“There are always more stores.”
He observes her outfit. “Why can’t girls settle for one store?”
“Because they might miss out on something incredible. Thumbs-up,” I tell Nev.
Ten nods his approval, then rests the back of his head against the wall and side-eyes me. “Or they might miss out on something incredible because they don’t look long enough around the first store.”
I rub my neck, which feels warm against my clammy palm. “That was deep.”
He stares at me so hard that I stand up to put some distance between us.
The next outfit Nev models is vetoed by Ten even though I don’t see anything wrong with it, but I don’t argue, because her loot is already considerable.
The other two girls who came in to try clothes step out of their dressing room. Ten looks at them, and it annoys me so much that I march to the register with my skirt.
I have a date tonight, I remind myself.
And he’s leaving.
Andhe’s Mona’s son.
37
A Slice of Boredom
If I were a football player, Harrison’s friend, Mike, would be the best date ever, but I’m neither a linebacker nor a fan of the sport. For Rae’s sake, I ask lots of questions about technique and strategy.
Mike answers me with words likebuttonhooks,Hail Marys, andblitzes. When I ask him what those are, he shoots me looks that make me shrink into the burgundy vinyl seat.
At least I ask questions. Unlike him. Mike hasn’t asked me a single question since the one at the start of dinner: “Do you like football?” to which I answered, “I’m not sure.”
After the waitress removes our empty plates, I excuse myself to go to the bathroom. I don’t ask Rae to come with me, although I’m sort of hoping she’ll jump out of her seat and tag along. She doesn’t. Unlike me, she enjoys football talk and is leaning into Harrison’s shoulder, eating up all his anecdotes.
I walk to the bathroom wishing it were the front door.
I wash my hands, then wipe them against my new denim mini instead of using the high-speed dryer. Since childhood, I’ve been terrified one of those things will suck me up and spit me out into some rat-infested tunnel. I don’t actually believe that anymore; I just really hate the violent noise they make.
“Nice skirt,” someone says as I retrace my steps toward the booth.
