“Aw, hell.” His eyes are green. And they twinkle in a way that reminds me of fairy lights. “I’ve got thousands of pointless stories to tell you.”
My smile is saccharine. “One was more than enough.”
“All right,” he draws out, tossing back the remainder of his coffee. “But after the beer-spilling era, Aunt Edna eloped with a rodeo clown named Tonto. Guess you’ll never know about it.”
“Devastating.”
“Sure was. Let’s just say the bull took him by the horns, instead of the other way around.” He gives a full body shiver. “All he left behind for Edna was a half-used face painting kit and some floppy shoes. She patched things up with Uncle Hank about a year later. Now they go yard sale hopping on Sunday mornings.”
I’m pretty sure my jaw is hanging down at my knees. “Is this like a strange kink? Instead of flashing people, you just go around accosting people with bizarre tales?”
“Well it’s too cold to flash people in December. My options are limited.”
He grins at me. Doesn’t temper it at all. He’s all smile lines and warm eyes.
Woefully handsome. Maybe even dapper.
And the most disturbing thing happens. Something I couldn’t have predicted in a hundred million years. The flip flop in my stomach must be a sign of the apocalypse. The end of days is nigh. It has never flipped nor flopped for anything but Kraft macaroni and cheese. I can’t be having a reaction to this man. An attraction reaction.
“I’m going to go now,” I say, my tone a little off.
For the first time since he appeared, that smile is gone. A hint of panic gusts through the green of his eyes just momentarily, before he bows his head. He looks down at the ground for a second, as if trying to regroup, then lifts his head to pin me with a fresh grin. “I did have a purpose for stopping, if you don’t mind humoring me just a while longer.” He dips his chin in the direction of the window. “I’m curious what you make of all this.”
“You’re referring to Penguin Chernobyl?”
His laugh booms down the block, stopping shoppers and looky-loos in their tracks. The sound of it reminds me of hot chocolate in front of a fire in Bruce Wayne’s mansion. It’s rich and hearty and thick with quality. “Yes, I suppose that’s what I’m referring to.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You want to know what I think about it?”
My skepticism gives him pause, one corner of his mouth turning down. “Yes. I do.”
“Do you work at Vivant?”
He shrugs one of those strapping shoulders. “In a manner of speaking.”
I narrow my gaze and give him another once-over. He definitely works in management. Maybe one of the upper offices. His gratingly jovial disposition makes me think he works in PR. Perhaps this entire conversation is his way of testing a new meet the consumers initiative. There is a part of me that really wants to ask, but I refuse to seem interested just because of that cataclysmic flop in my stomach earlier.
“Fine, whatever,” I mutter, wrapping my gloved hands around the cross strap of my messenger bag, stomping my feet for warmth as I turn to face the window again. “I think it’s more likely to drive shoppers away from the store than bring them in. No one wants to think of their Christmas gifts being put together on an assembly line. It’s too impersonal. It’s a reminder that we’re all just trapped in a pattern of consumerism and we’ll never escape it. The pattern will just keep rolling and rolling like that conveyer belt. People want to pick out something for their loved ones that they believe is unique. One of a kind. Not something produced in a factory.”
Oh, now I’m on a roll. A few passersby have even stopped to listen to my spiel and normally that would derail me, clam me up, but window dressing was my dream job once upon a time. Before my life was placed on hold, I took three years of online college courses that focused primarily on fashion merchandising and marketing. I’d hoped to one day style window displays. It’s one of the only things I’ve ever been passionate about. It’s why I usually find it too painful to walk down Fifth Avenue, reminded of how badly I messed up.
Pedestrians are still paused around us, waiting to hear what I’m going to say. And, hey. I’m never going to see any of these people again, especially Bow Tie, so why not give my opinion? It’s been a really long time since someone besides Dr. Skinner asked for it and she was only doing her job.
“That brings me to the penguins.” I make the mistake of glancing over at Bow Tie and almost lose my train of thought. He can’t be half as interested in my opinion as he looks. Can he? The man doesn’t even look like he’s breathing. “And…you know. The average lifespan of a penguin is like, thirteen years, so technically this is child labor. Not a good look.”
He studies the window as if seeing it for the first time. “You’re right. It’s awful.” He shakes his head. “One of those penguins is seconds from losing a flipper.”
I jolt a little at the way he mimics my thoughts, but hide it well by clearing my throat.
And tucking hair behind my ear, over and over again. Unnecessarily.
“Are you an artist?” he asks. “Have you window dressed before?”
I wish. God, I wish. I never got that far.
“No, I’m just critical.”
He huffs a small laugh, his eyes somehow shrewd and thoughtful and welcoming at the same time. In that moment, I am absolutely certain there is something unique about this man. A distinctiveness. Layers. And I really wish I would have just walked away when I had the chance. He’s maneuvered me to a place where I have a voice and don’t feel invisible. I didn’t see it coming. Did he do it purposely? If so, why would he take the time to do that? What did he sense about me that made him stop? What is even happening?
“How would you dress the window instead?”
Dammit.
Dammit.
I’m letting him pull me out of my anonymous solitude and it’s so rude and presumptuous of him to do so, but I’m already halfway sunk into the quicksand. Plus, I have to answer. It’s too tempting not to. Saying the words out loud is the closest I’ll ever come to the real thing. A girl with a prison record is never going to decorate a store window at Vivant.
A line appears between his brow as if he’s reading my thoughts.
Rude.
“I wouldn’t remind them they’ve come to the store to spend their money. I would remind them that buying presents is about…surprise. Surprise is priceless.” I blow out a breath, white condensation billowing in the air in front of me. “That moment when a loved one takes the lid off a box and gasps. That’s what we’re in it for. There’s a whole corner of TikTok dedicated to it.”
For the last few months, since being released from Bedford Hills, I’ve been finding comfort in watching people on the internet hear famous songs for the first time. Or their first time watching Star Wars or Twilight or Harry Potter. I watch those videos and wonder if I’ll ever be able to express emotions like that again. Just pow. No hesitating. Without toning the feelings down or worrying that if I get too emotional, my dam will break and everything will just come pouring out.
“We go out looking for a magical item, no idea what it is. If we see it, we’ll know, but we rarely find it. So show them. Show shoppers the item that will shock their lover or sibling or mother and make them feel not only loved, but exciting as a human being. The keys to a moped, the perfect nude lipstick, a designer martini shaker. If this was my window, I’d…display the dress a woman would never buy for themself but secretly wish they owned. And I’d make that dress a new lifestyle. A new start. Their desired result is on the other side of the window.”