13. The Glow Up #4
“Will she even consider one,” he asks, sounding doubtful. “With me? After what I said to her?”
“It’ll be hard. I can’t promise she’ll agree. But,” I tilt my head up, meeting his eye with a smirk of undiluted confidence, “you should trust in my ability to talk anyone into anything.”
He nods, swallowing what appears to be a lump in his throat. “Thank you.”
“That’s the first nice thing you’ve ever said to me,” I say, touched by this display of sincerity, rare as it was. “Being nice is a good look on you.”
A yawning silence stretches over us, delivering five long seconds of sentimentality I’m not ready to deal with.
Michelle is a lucky girl.
Wait… what a strange thought.
Searching for a distraction, my focus lands on the task at hand.
“I’m not sure about this shirt. The shoulders are all wrong.
Here, try this on.” I yank a black button down from the hanger and Rhys immediately begins unbuttoning the one he has on.
With deft team work, we trade one shirt for another and I resume my mother hen fussing, patting his shoulders, smoothing the wrinkles, buttoning him up until my knuckles accidentally graze the skin of his lower belly, right above the waistband of his boxers.
Phantom sparks of heat skips through my fingers as if I’ve just touched a burning stove. I jump back.
“I’m sorry.”
“No worries.” Rhys clears his throat. “I’m sorry, too.”
“For what?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I’m just sorry.”
“I’ll um...” I step back, flexing my fingers to ward off the singe. “I’ll let you tuck it in.”
“Yeah. I-I can take it from there.”
Pretending to fuss with a selection of belts, I give him space as he tucks the rest of his shirt in his trousers. For a second, I’m disoriented, thirsty, and slightly out of breath. Hunger and poor ventilation are the culprits, naturally. Obviously. It has to be.
I pick up a minimalist black belt and hand it to him.
“Here,” I say, sounding more terse than intended.
I keep my eyes averted as he slips the belt through his pants loops.
For reasons I can’t explain, I have trouble facing him until I’ve collected my composure.
I don’t want him assuming I’m a wilting violet, fainting at the slightest brush of skin on skin.
It was hot skin, wasn’t it?
Ah. Gross. Okay, I’ll admit it. For a sliver of a second, I sensed an unspoken attraction on my part (I can’t speak for him) and I may have abandoned all reason and found Rhys kinda hot.
I am, at times, attracted to weird and toxic things.
Like artificial raspberry blue popsicles, the bluer the better.
Or that giant jug of neon orange cheese balls.
Despite living with a roommate who buys only organic foods, I can never make a Target run without coming home with a gallon of neon cheese balls, which I would hide in the back of my closet in shame.
Rhys is like a repellant bucket of neon cheese balls.
I’d never cop to liking them, but I’d scarf them down in secret and then repent with a celery juice cleanse the following week.
“Done.” Rhys frowns, glancing down at his sleek new outfit. “I don’t mind this. What do you think?”
When I turn to look at him, my heart thumps even faster.
I can’t help smiling in pride at my own accomplishment.
Now I feel bad about comparing him to a bucket of cheese balls.
It’s a weird thing to compare anyone to.
For the record, I don’t want to scarf him down.
No part of him will ever enter my mouth.
Feeling foolish, I motion for him to face the mirror. “There,” I say, peering over his shoulder. “You look so much better without that crusty hoodie. You’re a prince in disguise.”
I meet his gaze in the mirror and a thought intrudes before I can swat it away.
I wouldn’t mind being his princess.
A shiver of disgust zips through my body, though you’ll never know it from my reflection. My expression is blank, poker face dialed to eleven.
Stop it, Carina! Stop these insane thoughts right now. You’re not attracted to him. You’re in love with your own creation. You can’t be his princess. You’re his maker.
“Do you think Michelle would like this?” Rhys turns around, studying his new outfit, oblivious to my distress.
“Yes.” I turn away, feeling suddenly sad. “Yes, I think she will once we fix... you know,” I gesture vaguely in his general direction, “your asshole problem.”
“I’m starting to think you have an asshole problem yourself,” he says, “considering the number of times you’ve called me an ‘asshole.’ Have you heard of projection?”
“I have more than an asshole problem. Believe me.” I blow a strand of hair away from my eyes. “Does it hurt your feelings? Do you bristle?”
Rhys un-tucks his shirt from his pants. “Do I bristle?”
“Do you want me to stop? I will stop. I have other names in my repertoire.”
He tilts his head, considering. “Assholes of a feather, flock together.”
“That’s beautiful,” I say dryly, though I’m secretly amused, “you should put that on a T-shirt and sell it.”