Not least of all because I had no idea what to wear.
Marissa:there’s a pair of black skinny jeans in your suitcase
She’d been giving me outfit advice for the past twenty minutes, and between the smell of fresh paint in this room and the anxiety of not knowing how to dressandmeeting an unknown number of new people, I was getting a headache.
Hayden:They don’t fit, why did you pack them?
Marissa:they do fit, they’re the only pair you own that fit properly. You’ve got a cute butt! Show it off.
I sifted through the contents of my suitcase—dumped out on the new double bed with the fresh, clean sheets—until I found the jeans in question.
Aaron hated these.
Maybe that was as good a reason as any to wear them.
Maybe that was why, when Marissa had come to say goodbye, she’d repacked my entire suitcase for me.
There were a lot of clothes in here that Aaron didn’t like. These jeans. The leather jacket I’d bought in college and worn once—the only jacket I had with me now—a couple of button-downs that she’d say fitted perfectly but I’d say were too small…
I should’ve checked before I left.
Hayden:Fine. I’ll wear the jeans.
Marissa:YES
Marissa:the pretty boys will flock to you, promise
I wasn’t so sure about that, but as I slid the fabric up over my ass, I remembered what I liked about these. They were comfortably worn because I’d had them since college, too, and honestly, it was a surprise they still fit at all.
… or not.
I couldn’t quite get the button closed. It was only a matter of a fraction of an inch, but it felt like the biggest fraction of an inch ever.
These had fit me last time I tried them on. A year and a half ago, maybe.
When Aaron had scoffed at me, told me I wasn’t a teenager anymore, and made me take them off before he’d be seen in public with me.
These jeans were going on. Theydidfit, I just couldn’t quite get the button in place. My own fingers were getting in the way.
Dammit.
It was theprincipleof the thing. These were going on whether they liked it or not.
“Fuck you,” I growled, then yelped as the button caught under my nail and bent it backwards, deep enough to hurt.
I shoved my injured thumb in my mouth just as my bedroom door swung open.
Wes.
Wes was standing there, fully dressed this time, hair dry and artfully disheveled, eyes wide.
I wasn’t sure whether or not he knewhewas one of the prettiest boys in town. Prettiest I’d ever seen, anyway.
“I can’t get it in the hole,” I said.
Wes blinked at me as I realized exactly which words I’d chosen to express the trouble I was having with my jeans.
He bit his lip, at leasttryingnot to burst into laughter, but clearly struggling with it.
