Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
“It’s from Mia Jane. It’s called Evening Shade. I need it in black. But not Jet Black. Be sure to get Studio Black. Not the volumizing one and not the waterproof one, but the curling, conditioning one,” I say.
He repeats, “Evening Shade. Studio Black,” but his warm brown eyes glaze over a bit, and it’s pretty clear what I need to do. I can’t let him save me every second of today.
“I’ll brave it,” I say, then dab at my cheeks again with a tissue I found in my clutch.
“I’ll go with you,” he says.
I take one more soldiering breath, then I step out of his car and join him on the sidewalk. I try not to freak out. Truly, I do. I hold my head high, and we stride into the shop, where a woman with electric-blue hair gawks at my clown face, then quickly course corrects. “Oh, honey, let’s take you to the makeup triage center.”
“Thank you,” I say.
Ten minutes later, I look presentable again with my makeup redone thanks to the electric-blue makeup angel.
Trouble is, there’s a new problem. I didn’t spot it before, but under the bright lights of the shop, I point at Carter’s slate-blue shirt, covered in my Jackson Pollack tears now. “I ruined your shirt,” I say, and maybe I do need waterproof mascara after all.
He glances down at the ink splotch the size of a sandwich on his shoulder. “Yes, you did, Dumont,” he says, but he’s sort of amused, maybe even proud.
My turn to save the day. “Gap to the rescue,” I say. There was one on this stretch of Chestnut when I grew up here, but when I scurry outside, there’s no Gap nearby. There’s no Target or men’s shop I can see either. I speak into my phone, asking where the nearest Gap is since those things are like Starbucks. But I shake my phone when I read the answer: “Google said the nearest Gap closed down.”
“I’m still in mourning. But I can just wear this,” Carter says, plucking at his horribly stained shirt. “I literally walk around with mud on my shirt on Sundays.”
“But it’s a Friday,” I say, energized by my new mission—to help him. He’s done nothing but help me since I made the official move to town, from lifting the couch, to giving me a ride, to letting me slobber all over his shoulder.
And dammit, I need a victory. If there’s one thing this broken down, hot mess of a divorcee can do, it’s shop.
I speak into the phone again, asking where the nearest men’s shop is when my attention snags on a thrift store at the end of the block. Daisy’s Duds. “Oh, I know that place. There’s another one in Haight-Ashbury. My yoga teacher Katie went to it one night and told us about it. They have a lot of costumes but clothes too.”
“We’re going to be late though,” he says, chagrined. “I’m late for too many things in life.”
I smile sympathetically. “You’ve got that under control, though, with all your alarms. You were bang on time yesterday at my house, after all.”
See? I can make light of the boob flashing. We have so returned to the normal zone, no problem.
His brown eyes darken, then he jerks his gaze away from me for a second. “True. I was.”
“And besides, this tardiness is on me. Okay?”
After a beat, he acquiesces. “Let’s do it,” he says.
“Yay!” I text my sister that I’m running a few minutes late, then we fly inside the shop teeming on one side with sequined dresses and feather boas alongside cop, doctor, and fireman uniforms. The other side of the shop is stuffed with everyday clothes, including rack after rack of short-sleeve button-down shirts. “Look! It’s like the holy grail of thrifting. Utility worker shirts,” I say, grabbing his arm and tugging him to the X marks the spot, where most of the shirts were clearly donated from men who work in blue-collar jobs—their names are sewn into patches on chest pockets.
Carter gawks at the selection of shirts. “I don’t know how to choose between Jim the Plumber and Chet the Electrician.”
From the counter, a voice calls out: “Let me know if I can help you, darlings. I’m Angel.”
I turn to a muscular man with stunning emerald eyeshadow and a fabulous feather boa. “I’m good for now,” I chirp as I flick through the racks quickly, hunting for just the right shirt. “The Texaco one is cute, but it’s a medium, so that won’t fit.”
“How do you know what size I wear?” Carter asks.
I toss him a what do you take me for look. “You play football for a living. You’re a brick wall. You’re not just a large. You’re an extra large,” I say, quickly surveying the strapping guy in front of me. “How tall are you? Are you six-six?”