Even though Will is trying to keep his feelings under wraps, I can tell how much he hates me. I saw the look on his face when I interrupted his conversation with Natalie last night and the look on his face when he saw me swallow that pill and when I asked him to get me a cheeseburger. He was judging me. Just like everybody else.
WILL
Marty doesn’t seem to have been right about Luna being in a bad mood. If anything, she seems in a good mood: upbeat, smiling, and chatting with the people serving her—and serving her is what everyone she encounters seems eager to do.
I feel ridiculous lurking in a corner of the store, holding bags, like an animate coatrack, and my irritation grows when I think about how much she just threw down on a handbag. How can anyone spend that much money on a handbag? It cost more than I owe in debt, and more than I’ll earn in six months.
“What do you think?”
I glance over at Luna, who’s just exited a changing room. I look around, but she seems to be talking to me. “Excuse me?” I respond.
“What do you think?” she asks.
I look her up and down, not that there’s much to look at because the snake-effect leather dress she’s wearing is minuscule. I’m stumped for what to say and struggling hard to keep my face from giving away my real feelings. “Sure.”
It seems like a reasonably neutral response.
“Sure?” she demands, hands on hips. “Do you like it or not?”
I shrug. “My opinion isn’t important.” Why is she even asking me?
She turns to look in the mirror. She’s got a great body, a dancer’s body, lithe and toned, and in that dress, there’s no way of hiding it either. But the dress itself? It’s like a boa constrictor ate Vegas Barbie.
“What do you think?” she presses again.
I run a hand between my neck and my collar. This is way beyond my comfort zone. I’ve never been asked by a woman, let alone one who employs me, what I think of what they’re wearing. I’m guessing the smart thing to do would be to lie, but I’m not good at that. “Well, I wouldn’t wear it,” I tell her, hoping for a laugh.
She rolls her eyes at me. “You don’t like it?” she asks, huffing loudly.
I shake my head. “Not really, no.”
She blinks at me in surprise, and I wonder how many people ever tell her the truth. It almost makes me smile.
“What would you choose?” she asks with a sneer, gesturing at the racks of clothes. “Go on, pick something for me. Play stylist.”
She’s trying to find a way to humiliate me and it’s childish and silly, but I decide to take it seriously. And besides, it’s better than standing in the corner like a coat stand. I start strolling around the store, looking over the racks of clothes.
She’s probably thinking that as a guy I’ll opt for her to try on something skimpy and tight, so I deliberately go the opposite direction. I choose a dress that’s soft as silk but made of cashmere or some other kind of wool. It’s moss green and it looks comfortable, too—loose, with a turtleneck and long sleeves.
I pick it off the rail, almost dropping it when I notice the price tag contains three zeroes before the decimal point, before handing it to her.
She looks at it, holding it up to inspect it. “Wow. I love it.”
She does? I have to admit I’m surprised.
“I can wear it for Halloween,” she says. “I can go as a nun. A blind nun. Who grew up in a Mormon sect.”
“Guess I’ll shelve that ambition I had to be your stylist,” I tell her dryly.
She pulls a face and hands me the dress before heading back inside the changing room. Feeling more dejected than I should, I hang the dress up. I didn’t think it was that bad. If she’d tried it, she might have discovered it suited her. But what do I know?
“Will?”
I turn, surprised to hear my name and even more surprised when I see Luna sticking her head out of the door of the changing room, calling to me. I didn’t even know she knew my name.
“Come here.”
I walk over to her, wondering if she ever says please or thank you.
“I need your help,” she whispers.
I raise my eyebrows. What now? Carrying more bags? Picking clothes up off the floor? “What is it?” I ask, struggling to hide my impatience.
She glances over my shoulder, furtive, and then looks back at me. “I’m stuck.”
I look around, unsure what she means.
“The dress,” she hisses. “The zipper’s stuck.”
“Oh,” I say. “Want me to get someone?” I start to walk away, meaning to find one of the shop assistants, but Luna grabs my arm and hauls me back.
“No!” she says. “They’ll laugh at me.”
“Why would they laugh?” I ask, confused.
“Look,” she snaps impatiently, “can you just try to unzip me?” Her cheeks are bright red and I can tell she’s genuinely embarrassed. I hide my smile at her predicament. Feels like karma.
She pulls me into the changing room with her, much to my surprise, and then shuts the door behind me. “Come on, help,” she says, turning around. “I can’t get it undone.”
I take hold of the zipper, aware that her bare back is brushing my fingertips and trying not to focus on how smooth and golden her skin is. I pull the zipper, but it doesn’t budge.
“It’s stuck,” I tell Luna.
“I know that,” she hisses, annoyed. “That’s why I asked for help.”
I try again, tugging harder. “It’s really stuck,” I announce.
“Oh my God.” She sighs loudly. “What am I going to do?”
“We could cut you out,” I suggest.
She starts frantically wriggling, trying to pull the dress off over her head, but it gets caught around her shoulders and now she’s even more stuck and it really is like a boa constrictor ate Barbie. I grin, unable to stop myself.
She pulls the dress down and glares at me, her cheeks flushing bright red. “Don’t laugh at me!”
“I’m not laughing,” I say, fighting to keep a straight face.
“Please,” she says.
I see she’s on the verge of tears and immediately stop smiling.
“I think we need scissors,” I say to her.
“No!” she sobs. “This dress costs like ten thousand dollars or something stupid.”
“Okay,” I say, my mind blown by the price tag, but also recognizing that she’s starting to panic and hyperventilate and that I need to keep her calm. “Let’s try this again. Turn around.”
She obeys and I take hold of the zipper. “Breathe in,” I tell her.
She does and I wriggle the zipper and manage finally to free it. I slide it down, revealing the length of her spine. She isn’t wearing a bra, and my gaze falls to her waist and then lower, to the top of her black lace underwear. For a second, I completely lose my train of thought and just stare, my throat going dry.
I look up and catch her looking at me in the mirror. Oh shit. Busted.
“There you go,” I whisper, embarrassed.
“Thanks,” she says quietly, still staring at me.
I nod. Then realize my hand is still on the zipper, my knuckles against the small of her back. I pull my hand away quickly and awkwardly leave the changing room, only to find a shop assistant on the other side of the door.