17 #2
“How old is this shirt?” Noah asked, holding up one of my thermals.
“I like that shirt.”
“It’s ancient.”
“It’s not that old.”
“It’s falling apart.”
“It’s fine.”
Noah held it up long enough to poke a finger through a hole in one sleeve. He rummaged around in another box before coming up with a sweater. “I gave you this, like, four years ago.”
“I know.”
“Howie!”
“What? I like it; that’s why I kept it.”
“It’s ancient!”
“For fuck’s sake, Noah, four years isn’t ancient. I have underwear—”
I stopped.
But not fast enough.
Somehow, Noah bullied me out to the car.
It didn’t matter that he was currently wearing an eye shadow he’d told me—twice—was called Bordello Pink.
It didn’t matter that his earring today was a tiny Tinkerbell that swung on a gold chain.
It didn’t even matter that he weighed close to half what I did and, on a good day, I probably could have lifted him over my head.
“I’ve got shit to do,” I said as he crowded me on the stairs.
“This is important.”
“I don’t have time.”
“Howie, the holiday house tour is a big deal. I’m not going to have you looking like—like some trade rent-boy I hired off Prowler.”
“What the actual fuck, Noah?”
He shoved me, and it was either walk down the stairs, or fall and break my neck.
To my surprise, Noah didn’t take me to one of the stores that I’d been dreading—the ones that had a men’s section about a quarter the size of the women’s, with ladies who looked simultaneously brittle and super scary at the same time.
Instead, he drove us over toward the college, where a lot of the town’s new development had been, and I found myself in a store that seemed like… well, a store.
“Just let me know if I can help you with anything,” said a woman who didn’t seem brittle or scary. She was folding sweaters on a cart, and immediately went back to what she’d been doing.
“Over here,” Noah said, and before I could realize what was happening, Noah took my hand and led me across the store.
His hand was smooth and small and dry, and it fit neatly into mine.
I didn’t turn my head. I didn’t glance around. I’d never been to this store before. I didn’t know that woman, didn’t give two fucks about her. There wasn’t anybody else in the place.
But as hard as I was trying not to look, it was like I wasn’t seeing anything. Like I couldn’t even see the store, not really, or the clothes, or anything. Which was why when Noah said, “What about this?” I had to blink like I’d been wearing a blindfold.
It was a white shirt that looked like it was made out of the same material as a stripper’s thong—shiny, stretchy, and I immediately knew everybody would be able to see my nipples through it.
Reaching out to touch the material gave me an excuse to drop Noah’s hand. “Uh, it’s all right,” I said. “Maybe we can look around—”
“Oh my God, Howie.” But he had a huge smile on his face as he returned the shirt to the rack. “It was a joke.”
And then he had my hand again, towing me through the store.
From time to time, we stopped, and Noah would hand me something, and I was supposed to hold it.
Jackets. Shirts. Pants. Holding all those clothes gave me something to do with my hands, so that was something, but it didn’t stop Noah from touching my shoulder.
From leaning against me. From holding a shirt up to me, judging the size, which made me feel like I was ten years old.
“Oh my God,” Noah said with something like glee. “Look at that!”
And he put his arm through mine and skipped across the room. All I could do was stumble along.
There was a twentysomething guy looking at a display of jeans, and he glanced over. Dark hair that was fashionably long. A hint of scruff. He was a college kid, I guessed. It wasn’t like he made a face. He didn’t say anything. Hell, he didn’t do anything except look up. And then look back down.
“This jacket is perfect,” Noah said when he stopped in front of a mannequin. “Excuse me!” It was practically a shout. He waved one hand—wrist loose, fingers fluttering. “Excuse me!” To me he said, “Howie, oh my God, you’re going to look so handsome in this.”
“What can I help you with?” the woman asked as she reached us.
“Do you have that jacket in stock?” Noah asked. “I want him to try it on. Wouldn’t it look perfect on him?”
The woman gave me an assessing look and a smile. If there had been any doubt in her mind before, it was gone now.
“I’m going to start trying some of these on,” I said. “Fitting room?”
“We do have some of those jackets,” the woman said to Noah. “Let me get him settled, and then I’ll see what’s in back.”
Noah was looking at me. It wasn’t an angry look. It wasn’t an…anything look.
“Is that okay?” I asked.
“Sure,” Noah said.
So, I tried on the clothes. It was a whole fucking process.
It shouldn’t have been, but it was. Because I’d gone through about half the shirts before Noah said, “I want to see.” And then I had to start over from the beginning, putting the clothes on, stepping out of the fitting room so Noah could see, holding my arms up and turning in a circle and letting him tug on it and adjust it and settle it across my shoulders like I didn’t know how to put on my own clothes.
Stiff touches. And the tugs were a little…sharp, maybe. But his face was smooth, and all he said was “That color washes you out,” and “It’s too short,” and “I wonder if I’d like it with the sleeves cuffed.”
“Thank you,” I said, around shirt number eight. “For helping me.”
“Mm.”
“Noah?”
“I think we need to try a size up in this one.”
“I said thank you for helping me.”
“You’re welcome.”
I looked over his shoulder. Just that woman now, still folding sweaters.
I took his face in my hands. I kissed him. And I said, “Why are you mad at me?”
A pink blush was rising in his cheeks, and he cut his eyes away. “I’m not.”
“I’m having a good day with you. I don’t want you to be mad at me.”
His mouth relaxed. His eyes softened. “I’m having a good day with you too. I promise I’m not mad. I just—I just got in my own head for a minute.” He hugged me and said into my chest, “It’s okay now. Let me see you in that red flannel again, but this time, let’s add that canvas jacket.”
When I came out of the dressing room, Noah said, “Oh Daddy.”
“Okay.”
“Howie, I can feel myself getting pregnant.”
I gave him a look.
“Babe, you look so good! I think this is it. Can you put these on, and we’ll see the whole outfit?”
He handed me a pair of pants. I shook them out and said, “These are cargo pants.”
“They’re going to look great on you.”
“I have cargo pants.”
“You have work pants that have cargo pockets. These are nice pants that happen to have a cargo pocket design.”
I immediately knew that I was going to lose that argument—mostly because I didn’t understand a word of it—so I switched to “You made me throw away my cargo shorts when we got married.”
“Uh yeah. Cargo shorts, Howie.” Noah shuddered. “Try them on, please.”
So, I did.