Page 22 of Things We Fake
Him asking me out was the last thing I expected. Was it a date or just an apology dinner? Whatever it was, I could take a selfie and show Paul and Mom that I hadn’t been lying—well, not exactly. I could spend the entire day Saturday primping and getting ready. This was my chance to show Cam what I was really like, and maybe if I did, and he liked what he saw, there could be a second date, and a third...
I lowered myself slowly, dreamily into my chair. It still carried the warmth of his body and his scent, a mixof cedar and vanilla that brought to mind images of toned, tanned skin and Arabian Nights. His hands had moved with purpose over my keyboard, tapping keys, dragging files. It was hard not to notice the way his forearms flexed or how he moved his long fingers—efficient, capable, graceful.
I wanted to slide my hands over his shoulders and down his chest, and whisper sweet nothings in his ear.
Instead, I stood there marinating in eau de cafeteria and shame. Maybe I should just stop wearing clothes altogether. Seen me once, seen it all. No more surprises.
Even so, for whatever reason, he had asked me out.
My shoulders slumped. What the hell was I going to wear?
I needed serious help. I reached for my phone and did the only thing that made sense: I called Ange.
“Sue?” she answered immediately, annoyingly perky for a Monday. “Is this about hats? Please tell me it’s about hats.”
* * *
By some minor miracle, I made it out of school on time Tuesday and hopped on the subway to get to Fifth Avenue, praying I wouldn’t chicken out. Ange had given me very specific instructions: meet her at Fairchild’s by 4:30 sharp or prepare for a lifetime of granny panties and involuntary celibacy.
Ange met me at the top of the escalator, arms crossed, looking like a general preparing to storm the beaches of Normandy.
“Finally. I thought you chickened out and eloped with your dignity. No time to waste—we’re starting with lingerie. Miriam, you’re in charge. I’m on a mission.”
“Roger that,” answered the bored girl in navy and white, while continuing to fold sweaters as though she’d rather be folding herself into a nap.
“Lingerie?” I blinked. “You mean underwear?”
“No, honey. I mean architecture. You can’t put up a skyscraper without steel beams—and you sure as hell can’t seduce a man in stretched-out cotton briefs with a faded Snoopy on the butt.”
“Cotton’s healthy for your lady parts.”
She spared me a glance. “Lady parts?”
“I don’t think vagina sounds any better.”
“Whatever you call it, do you know what’s healthier for it than cotton pants? Sex.”
I rolled my eyes. “Who said anything about sex? It’s just a date. I never ever have sex on a first date.”
Ange grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward the down escalator. “It’s not just any date. Jesse told me about your folks coming over for Easter. You need to play your cards right for this date. The stakes are huge. Don’t tell me you find the thought of boinking Cam distasteful.”
I blew out a breath. “Of course not. It sounds like dreaming the impossible dream. Even Neil The Creep never found me particularly sexy.”
“Because he had crappy taste in women, and you didn’t have me back then. Cam will pick up his tongue off the floor when he sees you. And maybe you’ll never have to confess that you lied to Mama Morelli. Hell, ifthis works out, you could be the first to actually leave Singleville and become the future Mrs. Jones.”
I laughed. “You’re crazy! You’re getting way ahead of yourself. I want to date the guy, not marry him and bear his children. Yet,” I added under my breath.
The second floor was a sea of satin and lace. A well-dressed saleswoman appeared like a fairy godmother with a tape measure around her neck and a glint of mischief in her eye.
“She’s yours,” Ange said, then turned to me. “No granny pants. No beige. No excuses.”
Thirty minutes and six bras later, I had rediscovered anatomy I didn’t know I had. I bought four sets of bras and matching panties in colors so sinful they should come with a warning label. I also walked out with a silk kimono that whisperedcome hitherin six different languages.
By the time we reached the fourth floor, my budget was sobbing. But Ange wasn’t finished. She had me try on dress after dress until I was ready to sob, too.
Half an hour later when I dragged my tired self out of the changing room for the umpteenth time, Ange clapped her hands with all the excitement of a mother watching her child win the Nobel Prize. “That’s the one!”
It was a sleeveless royal blue dress with a deep V neck and figure-hugging shape that made my pulse stutter. Were those boobs really mine? Damn! That bra was worth every penny. I didn’t just look good—I looked hot.
