I pull my head back. “Really? Didn’t look weird to me. At least, not on SportsCentre.”
One side of his mouth kicks up, and he starts to smile when his brows lift. “Were you watching me on TV, Ren?”
“Imani’s taken a special interest in baseball.” I pretend to look back at the racks of clothes, walking past the T-shirts towards the pants at the back of the store. “I was just being a good friend.”
“Well, no one would accuse you of being anything but just that,” he says. “A good friend, I mean.”
My cheeks heat, and I nod with a quiet smile. “I knew what you meant.”
We stare—for a bit too long. His eyes on me and mine on him.
But he clears his throat. “So, what was Mr. T. Rex’s deal with thrift stores? Seem pretty harmless to me.”
“Believe it or not—” I glance sideways at Miller and pick up a fur hat sitting on top of a tall circular rack of pre-loved jeans. “He didn’t like old things. Which is ... something, considering his chosen profession.”
I don’t say the truth, that what’s more—he didn’t love me in them. That it was a waste of time, to play pretend with things that used to belong to other people and invent stories and whole new worlds for them.
But Miller looks at me, mouth tilted to the side, and I pull the hat down on my head, tipping my chin and smiling up at him.
“That’s ... really ugly,” Miller finishes on a laugh, but his tattooed hand raises, and he tugs absentmindedly on one of the flaps.
“Hey!” I pull back, swatting at his hand, lifting the other in defence of my fur hat. “Winters get cold.”
“It’s June,” he says flatly, giving me a knowing look. “And June in Toronto certainly doesn’t get cold.”
I purse my lips. “The fossil lab can get chilly.”
“Oh yeah?” His mouth slants into a lopsided grin, and he points to a hideous pair of jeans that look like they’re insulated with faux fur. “You should try these on. Bet they’d look great.”
I make a show of plucking the pants between my fingers, but when I do, they shift, and I can see into the centre of the jeans rack. The perfect circle makes a little hideaway. “Oh my god, it’s like Narnia in here!”
“I don’t think those kids should have gone through that wardrobe.”
“Think there’s Turkish Delight in here?” I arch a brow, ducking down behind the jeans to step into the centre of the rack.
It’s quiet, a whole other world, and even though he’s just on the other side of some pants, Miller sounds muffled. “Find any?”
“Nope. Just denim. Not even any dust.” I kick a toe into the shining linoleum flooring, and I call back, “But there’s enough room for two.”
Hangers screech across the metal rack as Miller pushes the rows of jeans apart, just as I’m settling down to sit on the floor. He gives me a dubious look. “What are you doing?”
I shrug, butterflying my knees before dropping my elbows to my thighs. “I don’t know. Being silly. Doing something I haven’t done in a long time.”
Something flashes behind his eyes, but I can’t tell what it is, because all six foot, two inches of Miller ducks under the rack and lets the jeans fall back into place when he crouches down to the ground, too.
He takes up most of the room in this little hideaway, but I don’t mind. It’s nice to share it with him.
“Why’d you never do your PhD?” he asks, crossing his legs, settling in for the long haul here amongst the forgotten and pre-loved pairs of jeans from all across the city.
“Already time for that then?” I sniff a laugh.
“You don’t have to—not if you don’t want to,” Miller offers. His hands flex against his knees, and when they do, his thumb whispers past my calf and I think it travels all the way up my spine.
“It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s ... maybe more embarrassing than the fact that I stayed with a man who stole from me for the better part of a decade.” My laugh turns sad, wilting at the edges like I did for so many years. “I don’t want you to think less of me.”
Miller’s eyes darken, and his full mouth parts before he starts with a slow shake of his head, his voice dropping to nothing when he whispers, “Impossible.”
I’m buoyant again, under Miller Colson-Burke’s stare and the shield of ancient, thrift-store clothing hanging around us.
