Chapter 14
Suit-phobia
Wyatt
“What, no beret, no plaid bell-bottoms or fringed vests?” Caroline exclaimed when I opened the door to my apartment.
She looked me up and down. You’d think after working with her for a month and having her take my measurements and brush her hands all over me every time I tried on a new article of clothing, I’d be numb to Caroline’s scrutiny.
I wasn’t. As her blue eyes took me in, my skin prickled with awareness.
As usual, she looked impeccable. She wore a sundress with a full skirt that went just below the knees, covering the scrapes from the mullet fall.
The fabric was white with black pin dots and swooping black bows tying the straps at each shoulder.
I waved her inside. “I wasn’t feeling it.”
“Are you okay?” She placed her palm on my cheek as if checking for a fever.
Her innocent touch made my blood buzz. I swatted her hand away.
Every time I met with Caroline, it was harder to stick to my own rules, to keep things professional.
That was the plan: to build our friendship, to make myself indispensable to her happiness.
What I hadn’t anticipated while concocting this “brilliant” plan was just how indispensable she would become to me and how fast I would get claustrophobic in the friend zone.
“I’m good. What do you have for me?” I pointed to the multiple garment bags she carried.
“Ah, yes!” She had a guilty look. “Suits.”
“I already told you I don’t need a suit.”
“Of course you need a suit. Every well-dressed man needs at least three suits.” Caroline marched into my bedroom and laid the garment bags on my bed.
“I never claimed to be well-dressed.”
“Ah, but you are. I cannot say how proud I was when you walked over to our booth at brunch. You looked divine.” I was hyped that our little plan worked.
Whenever Emma was in town, Charlie kept tabs on Caroline’s comings and goings on Find My Friend.
When he saw that his sister was at Ruth’s Diner, he texted me and Emma, and we bolted over.
Emma reveled in the whole scheme and assured me afterward that Caroline was properly jealous.
“What I don’t understand is how you don’t already have a suit,” Caroline continued. “What were you planning to wear to my wedding?”
For a moment, I was confused. “Your wedding?” Things couldn’t be that serious with Ed Frechette. They had only been dating for a month or so.
“When I was marrying Greg. The wedding you helped call off!” She flicked my chest. “Keep up, Wyatt.” What was with all the touching today?
“I was going to buy a suit,” I said lamely.
“Holy Hannah!” Her eyes lit with a new idea. “That’s why you told Greg not to marry me.” I went on high alert as I always did when Caroline brought up the uncomfortable topic. “You had him dump me because you couldn’t bother wearing a suit to his wedding.”
I barked out a startled laugh. She laughed, too, her cackling laugh, which I loved. We both laughed so hard we were gasping for air, and my eyes were watering.
“I can’t believe you just joked about that,” I said as I caught my breath.
“Me too! It feels good,” she said with a calm smile. “But seriously?” she asked me. “What were you planning to wear to my wedding?”
The truth was, I hated the idea of Caroline marrying Greg.
From the moment I met her, I admired her.
And after the accidental kiss, I couldn’t help but notice her more.
I observed her good qualities as well as how badly my cousin treated her.
I saw that under all her sharpness and prickles, Caroline possessed a tender heart that loved fiercely.
Somewhere along the way, probably that night we played Hearts, my crush became something more.
I couldn’t stomach the thought of her marrying my cousin.
It made me sick to think of her loving him while he continued his philandering.
I knew I needed a suit for the wedding, but without my mom to remind me and nag me, I dragged my feet till the last minute.
The last suit I owned, I wore to my mom’s funeral.
A perfectly fine black suit, but whenever I saw it hanging in my closet, I remembered.
I remembered carrying her coffin as a pallbearer, too gutted to cry.
I remembered my dad sobbing as her body was lowered to the dirt and not knowing how to comfort him.
I remembered awkwardly receiving condolences and well-wishes from my mom’s elegant friends and clients.
They all told me she was too young to die or that she was in a better place.
I had nodded along with no clue how to respond, wanting to be alone with my grief.
But once I was alone, I longed for someone to comfort me.
I couldn’t very well tell Caroline how I felt about her wedding, not yet.
But I could explain a little about why I hated suits.
“I don’t like suits because the last time I wore one.
..” I sat down on the edge of my bed. “The last time I wore one...” Why did my voice catch?
It had been six years! I thought I was getting better at this.
She waited for my answer, her eyes soft with concern.
“It’s just that you wear suits to funerals,” I muttered.
“Oh! Wyatt!” Caroline sat down next to me. She reached for my hand and held it. Her sympathy loosened a knot tangled deep inside me.
To my dismay, tears burned my eyes. “I’m sorry. I thought I’d be over this.”
She squeezed my hand.
“You loved your mom. That’s not the sort of thing you should get over.”
The truth of her words struck me. I wiped my cheeks with the back of my hand.
Caroline wrapped her arms around me and rested her head on my shoulder.
It felt so good to cry out my hurt with her arms around me.
This was what I wanted. Someone to laugh and cry with for the rest of my life.
Why was she dating stupid, perfect Ed? The thought stopped my tears.
I stood up and got some tissues to wipe my eyes.
Caroline remained sitting on the edge of my bed, gazing at the creek tumbling through the woods behind the shop, her face thoughtful.
“Well, that was embarrassing,” I said to lighten the mood. I rubbed my hands through my hair, surprised again by my short haircut.
“You found that embarrassing? Yet you were just fine wearing that faux fur vest last week?” She scoffed. “Wyatt,” she softened her tone. “Don’t be embarrassed about sharing your feelings. That’s what friends do.”
“Yeah—friends,” I said. The word hung in the air.
Caroline stood up, smoothing down her skirt, returning to getting-things-done mode. I followed her as she moved to the kitchen. She took out her notepad. “Now that I understand your aversion to suits, I have some ideas. What you need are some positive experiences while wearing one.”
“Good luck with that!”
“Nah! We’ve got this. Let’s review all the different events one might need to wear a suit to.
” She wrote a list, calling out each idea: “Church, the symphony, the ballet, meeting a foreign dignitary, meeting with bankers, running for office.” She chewed on the pencil.
“Have you ever thought of running for office? You’d make a great politician. ”
“What would make you say that?” I said, getting her a Diet Coke from the fridge.
“For one thing, the camera loves you. Plus, you’re really good with strangers, and you’ve got this vibe where you can fit in with white-collar workers just as well as blue-collar ones. Not everyone can do that.”
“I think you’re saying I’m handsome and charming and people like me.” I handed her the drink.
“Don’t let it go to your head. Seriously, I think you’re very electable.”
“Isn’t running for office in order to make me comfortable in a suit a little extreme?”
“It would work. But it might take too long.” She crossed out “political candidate.” “What about a date? Why don’t you ask Emma out?”
Again, I ran my hand through my too-short hair. I considered telling Caroline that I had no interest in dating Emma, that the only woman I wanted to date was her. But she was still dating Ed. Plus, I was scared. So scared.
“Nope, that won’t work. I can’t wear a suit for the first time on a date. I’d feel too awkward to have any fun.”
“Fair enough.” She crossed out “Date.” “Wait a minute!” She raised her head slowly with a devious grin. “I’ve been thinking about this all wrong. To cure your suit-phobia—”
“I don’t think that’s a word,” I interrupted.
“It is now. We need to do something fun. Try on one of those suits I left in your room.”
“Why does this make me nervous?”
“You’re going to love this. Trust me.”
***
Caroline
Wyatt stepped out of his closet wearing the light gray linen suit.
The sheer beauty of him made my blood rush to my cheeks.
I told Lettie that Ed was exactly what 15-year-old me wished for in a boyfriend, but that’s only because 15-year-old me had a limited imagination.
In all my daydreams for love and marriage, I never conjured up someone this appealing, this sexy, this amusing, this thoughtful.
Lately, every time I was with Wyatt, I had to continually remind myself not to touch him.
And even then, I still made excuses to do so.
I walked over and brushed my hands across his shoulders.
“It’s a little tight on the shoulders,” I said, trying to sound all business-like.
I walked around him and flipped up the flap on the suit coat.
“Appears to be a decent fit in the seat,” I said coolly.
Understatement of the year! I ran a hand across his broad, flat back.
“Obviously, the jacket needs to be taken in at the waist.” I circled back to the front and straightened a collar that didn’t need straightening.
“I would love to see you in a custom-tailored suit. Anyone who looks this good in a suit should be required to wear one at least once a month.” Wyatt’s cheeks pinkened.
With his two-day-old scruff, he looked a little like a pirate blushing.
“It’s your civic duty to go out in public dressed like this.
Haven’t you heard, ‘Don’t hide your light under a bushel’? ”
“I’m positive that’s not what the good Lord meant,” he answered. I was a little taken aback that he knew I was referring to scripture. Which was silly after nearly a month of working with Wyatt—I should have been used to him upending my expectations. “Are you religious?” he asked.
“Not really; my grandma was.” Reflexively, I touched my pearls. “Sometimes I went to church with her. I like the idea of going to church. You know me, any excuse to dress up.”
“Hmm . . . I can see that.”
“I warned you that I was a prude. Note the pearls.”
“And the buttons,” he said with that familiar glint in his eye. “You always wear clothes with buttons and bows. You are all buttoned and tied up.”
He reached forward and took the end of one of the shoulder ties on my dress. He tugged at it gently, not enough to untie it, but enough to make me think of him untying it. My eyes flashed to his. He dropped the tie and took a step back.
“Yeah, well, I’ve always liked buttons and bows and ruffles,” I said, turning away and walking into his closet. “I plan to make the most of them as long as they’re trending.”
I went to his sock drawer and pulled out some appropriate socks.
I glanced over his shoes, all pairs I’d purchased for him in the last month.
I was torn. I wanted him to look sharp, but if he ended up with a blister at the end of the night, my suit campaign would fail.
I selected some brown leather boots. Wyatt had balked at the price but had grudgingly admitted they were comfortable. I found a matching belt.
“Here, put these on.” He did as he was told.
“Please don’t make me wear a tie!” he begged as he tugged on his second boot. I liked watching him lace his shoes. He did everything with such precision. I imagined that was how he refurbished cars; no detail was too small for Wyatt.
“No tie,” I promised. “This is just Phase One of Operation Suit.”
“How many phases are there?” He looked up from where he was sitting with an amused smile.
“I’m not sure. I’m making this up as I go. My goal tonight is to help you have some fun while wearing a suit.”
He stood up, looking highly skeptical. “This thing is a straitjacket.”
“That’s because your shoulders are a little too broad for the coat. You’ll be so much more comfortable when you wear a suit made for you.”
“Couldn’t I wear a bigger jacket? What’s in these other bags?” He moved to the other two garment bags. One was a bigger suit. But I didn’t want him trying it on.
“No, I can’t have you going around in a suit jacket that’s too big for you. I don’t want you to look like a little boy wearing his dad’s suit.”
“Okay, uncomfortable jacket it is. Where to?”
“This is where you’re going to have to trust me,” I said, giving him what I hoped was a winning smile.
“Lead the way.” He handed me my purse, which I had left on his bed.
“Perfect.” And he did look perfect, even with an ill-fitting jacket. I felt a smidge bad about making him wear a suit on a warm night. It was still 80 degrees. But each time I looked at him, I felt a little less guilty.
“What are you smiling about?” he asked as he climbed into the driver’s seat. (I figured he’d enjoy the night better if he drove.)
“You just look so good. I can’t stop looking at you.” Smothering him with praise was a key part of “Operation Suit.” An easy task since he looked amazing. I found it hard to look at anything else.
As he drove, he must have felt my eyes on him; he kept glancing over, catching me checking him out.
“What are you looking at?” he asked, a little nervously.
“You.” No point in hiding the truth when it would help my cause. “I can’t look away.”
He broke out into a wide smile and turned on the stereo in the cherry red 1956 Chevy Cadillac.
“I hate to admit it,” he said.
“Yes?” I asked hopefully.
“Operation Suit might be working.”