Page 60 of That Friendzone Feeling
Exceptthe hanger won’t fit through the hole.Nomatter how hardIpush it.
Theback of my neck is damp, my armpits sticky.
Idrop my aching arms and look at the hanger.There’sa small metal ball on the end, presumably to stop someone from poking themselves with it.Andbecause it’s cool.
Aplain old dry cleaner’s hanger did the trick last time.Theremust be one of those here.
Thepolished wood hangers rattle like a tuneless xylophone asIsearch through them.Butthere’s nothing less fancy here.
Fuck.DamnWalker’sdesign choices.
ButIcan’t admit defeat.IfIdo, what’s the only other option? “Hey,Walker.Iknow you gave me the orgasm of the century last week.AndthatI’vespurned all yourattempts to turn it into something more.ButI’min a bit of a pickle and need you to undress me.”
Yeah, that wouldn’t make me a selfish ass at all.
MaybeIcan pull the dress off over my head without undoing the zipper.
Igrab a handful of fabric behind my neck again and yank it upward.Itcovers my face.Yes, this will work.Phew.
Ikeep pulling, arms straight up, wrists bent back soIcan tug it inch by inch up my body.
Mybackside gets chilly as the fabric rises above it.
Halfwaythere.
Thenthe waistline hits my shoulders.
Shit.
Yes.Iguess my waist is narrower than my shoulders.Ihadn’t thought that part through.
Now, hereIam, stuck, with my ass hanging out of the bottom of the dress, which covers my face, my arms straight above my head, hands flapping to get a better grip on it.
Atrickle of sweat runs down my spine.
I’mlike a gecko shedding its skin.Incompetently.
Ishimmy the dress back down and sit on the edge of the bed, a clammy mess, my hair looking like it’s just had a dress tugged back and forth over it.Whichit has.
Nomatter how much this thing cost, ifIhad scissors in here,I’dcut myself out of it right this second.
Fuck.
Walkerreally is the only option.
Itake a deep breath, run my fingers through my tangled hair, and head out.
Witha couple of lamps on in the living area and just the under-cabinet lights on in the kitchen, the vast space feels somehow cozy.
Walker’sstanding with his back to me, slicingsomething.Theshoulder muscles under his tightT-shirt shift in time with the slices, and his head bobs to the low music playing from the speaker on the counter.
“Hey.”Hopefullythat sounds cheerful and not too much like a self-centered jerk who just rejected him but now needs his help. “Anychance you could do me a quick favor?”
Helooks over one of those broad, beautiful shoulders.
“Sure.Youwant me to make you a sweet potato and cottage cheese omelet?”
“Astempting as that sounds,Iwas actually just wondering if you could help me get out of this dress.”Okay,Ishould have rehearsed that sentence beforeIcame out here.Thisis not howIwanted it to sound.
