Page 58 of Love Lessons
But even if she were still alive, I wouldn’t have bought the sweater. The only thing Nonna and I ever fought about was my passion for fashion. She raised me alone. We never had any money, and I resented my thrift-store clothes and hand-me-downs from people at church.
“You don’t need fancy clothes to look beautiful,” she used to say. But I disagreed. And every time there was a big event requiring special clothes, it became a source of tension.
The first high school dance, for example. Nonna wanted to send me in someone’s borrowed Easter dress. But at fourteen, I was really small for my age. And the borrowed dress was childish—purple and frilly. A real horror show. I wanted to borrow fifty dollars and buy a cocktail dress in size 0 from Century 21 in lower Manhattan.
She said no. We had a huge fight about it. On the night of the dance, I told my new friends that I had a stomachache, and I stayed home and cried.
When springtime rolled around, there was another semi-formal. This time I wore a dress that one of our church friends had grown out of. It was an A-line with chiffon sleeves and a V-neck, in a dark-green color that made it look very grown-up to me.
I loved it. Spent the three days before the dance trying it on and admiring myself in the mirror. I spent five dollars—all my spending money—on a new pair of pantyhose. My shoes were boring black flats, but I didn’t care because the rest of me looked great.
The night of the dance, I did my hair in a French twist and borrowed a pair of earrings from my grandma. There’s a snapshot of me in that dress somewhere. I looked great.
Unfortunately, the girl who had given it to us—Rosalie Carrera—was a classmate. And she made a point to tell absolutely everyone at the dance that the dress used to be hers, and that my Nonna had toldhermother the story of how I stayed home from the last dance because we were too poor to buy nice clothes.
I overheard her about twenty minutes after the dance began. And then I heard the other girls snickering. So I spent the next hour crying in a bathroom stall.
Nonna never heard that story. And it took her a long time to come around to my choice of career.
I give the red sweater one more pat and then move on to the menswear section.
My thoughts turn automatically to Ian, as they have every five minutes or so all day. Maybe it’s ridiculous, but last night he gave me the hottest sexual experience of my life. I’m twenty-seven years old, and I never knew I could be turned on like that.
Honestly, my orgasm wasn’t even the most shocking thing about last night. It was Ian’s attitude that surprised me the most. So playful. So confident.
Sotender, too, as he coaxed me to trust him. He could have laughed at me, but he didn’t. And afterwards, when he curled up beside me in bed, I lay there fighting sleep, not wanting the night to end.
I’d misjudged him completely.
“Watcha looking at?” Charli asks. “Who’s that for?”
I focus my eyes on the merino T-shirt in my hands. It’s a beautiful knit in a heathered, charcoal gray. “This is gorgeous. I was thinking about it for Ian.” I check the printed tag inside—a hundred percent merino. I run a finger over the interior seams and find that they’re knitted together like a sweater. The effect is silky smooth.
This thing costs a hundred euros, my critical inner voice points out.Plus, if you shower him with attention, you’ll look desperate.
There’s that. And if he doesn’t tolerate wool, he won’t even be able to wear it.
I turn to the clerk behind the counter. “Mi scusi signore.Qual è la vostra politica di reso?” What is your return policy?
“Trenta giorni,” he replies. Thirty days.
“Grazie.” I can work with that.
“Here’s another version,” Charli says from the other side of the table. She holds up the shirt. “Raglan seams.”
“Ooh, that’s even better. It fits closer to the body.” I circle the table for a better look.
She swings a hip playfully into mine. “Close to the body, huh? How close are we getting these days?”
My gaze snaps up to hers. “Why?”
Charli laughs. “Come on, I’m dying here. That dreamy look on your face tells the whole story. It says—Ian spent the night in my bed.”
My eyes bug out. “You’re a sorceress.”
She laughs so hard that her shopping bag slides to the floor. “Oh, Vera. You should see your face.”
“What’s so funny?” Heidi Jo asks. She’s holding a shopping basket with socks and tights inside.
