8. Jonah
JONAH
I stare at the dark denim hanging over the changing room door like it just hissed at me.
They’re jeans. I am aware of this. Cotton.
Dyed. Mass-produced. Not sentient. And yet.
I reach out and touch the fabric with the caution of a man diffusing a bomb.
I can’t remember the last time I wore jeans—graduate school, maybe.
And even then, it was under social pressure.
Eleanor had promised the departmental picnic would be “casual.” I wore khakis and still felt like I’d disrespected academia.
“Are you putting them on or just having a staring contest with them?” Lila’s voice slices through the thin door.
“I’m evaluating them.”
“You’re evaluating pants?” There’s an audible sigh from the other side. “Those dress pants of yours will shred the second they meet barbed wire. And you don’t come across as the kind of guy who wants to haul ass from a tornado with his ass hanging out.”
I freeze.
“That phrasing feels unnecessarily vivid.”
I exhale slowly and begin unbuttoning my khakis with all the solemnity of a man surrendering to peer pressure.
I fold them carefully then pick up the jeans.
I step into them and pull. They resist. I pull harder.
Eventually they slide into place, snug around my thighs.
My legs have never been this clearly outlined before.
I button the waistband and turn toward the mirror.
I turn sideways. Oh no. I look like one of those cowboys from a romance book cover I’ve seen at bookstores.
“Are they on yet?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
I swallow. “They’re just...very form-fitting.”
“That’s the point. You need freedom of movement. No extra fabric catching on things.”
“I have never once been caught on anything.”
“Because you’ve never chased a tornado through a fence.”
I examine my reflection again. I look sturdier. Broader. It’s deeply unsettling.
Before I can articulate my protest, something blue sails over the top of the door and lands squarely on my face. I flinch, momentarily blinded.
“What was that?”
“Shirt.”
I peel the fabric off my head and hold it up. It’s a Henley in a shade of blue so bright it could be used as a maritime signal.
I pull it on, the soft cotton surprisingly comfortable against my skin. The sleeves hug my arms. Years of hauling research equipment around campus has apparently had some physical benefit. It’s not like I prioritize getting to the gym when I barely make it home to sleep in my own bed most nights.
“I look like I repair tractors recreationally.”
“Let me see,” Lila says, and I can hear the impatience in her voice.
I hesitate, feeling oddly vulnerable. This outfit is so far outside my comfort zone that I might as well be wearing a spacesuit. But I've already agreed to chase tornadoes with this woman—surely I can handle a wardrobe change.
I unlock the changing room door and step out, arms spread in a reluctant “ta-da” gesture.
Lila looks up from where she’s leaning against the fitting room wall, and the second her eyes land on me, her expression changes. “Much better,” she adds, nodding in approval. “You almost look like you belong in the field now, not at some garden party.”
“I feel ridiculous,” I admit, tugging at the hem of the Henley.
“Well,” she says slowly, “that’s unfortunate for you.”
I frown. “What does that mean?”
“You know,” Lila says, her eyes traveling from my face down to my legs and back up again, “you actually look way better in jeans than in khakis.”
I feel heat rush to my face, and I resist the urge to tug at the collar of this too-tight shirt. But there's something in her gaze. A lingering, appreciative look that makes my embarrassment shift into a need to buy every pair of jeans in this place so long as she keeps looking at me like that.
“Is that a compliment?”
“Just an observation,” she says, but the corner of her mouth quirks up. “Turn around. Let me see the full picture.”
I hesitate for a moment before slowly rotating, feeling absurdly like I'm on some model runway. When I complete my turn, Lila is studying me with that same intense focus she usually reserves for storm systems.
“Definitely an improvement,” she concludes with a decisive nod. “The lab rat look wasn't doing your actual physique any justice.”
“You’re staring,” I point out.
She laughs loudly, which makes several other shoppers turn our way. “It won’t just be me, professor. Who knew all that was hiding under those shapeless button-downs?”
I should be offended. I should be protesting that my wardrobe is appropriate for my position. Instead, I find myself strangely pleased by her assessment. I clear my throat in a nervous gesture.
“You know,” she says, pushing off the wall, “it's a little annoying, actually.”
“What is?”
“That you look like that.” She makes a loose gesture in my direction.
I open my mouth, then close it.
She steps forward and reaches up to straighten the collar of the henley. Her fingernails are short, unpainted. I go very still. Her knuckles graze my sternum before she drops her hand and looks at the middle distance somewhere past my shoulder.
“I'm guessing this isn't a new problem for you,” she says.
“You'd be surprised.”
She looks back at my face. Something recalibrates behind her eyes. “Yeah,” she says, quieter. “Their loss.”
My heartbeat makes a poor decision. I clear my throat. “You do this on purpose.”
“Obviously.” Her grin is back, the easy one, the one she uses when she's already won. “You get this look every time. Like someone pulled your power cord.”
“I don't get a look. Are we done here?” I ask, trying to deflect this conversation in any direction, but the one we’re currently on right now.
“Not quite.” She points toward the boot section. “You need footwear that will actually hold up.”
“These are quality leather oxfords,” I protest weakly, following her through the store. She stops at a display where she grabbed the jeans earlier, and grabs another pair, then moves on to the shirts, and grabs several more, thrusting them into my hands.
Lila snorts. A small smile plays at the corner of her mouth before she turns her attention to a display of hiking boots. “These should work. Waterproof, good ankle support, decent tread. What size do you wear?”
“Eleven,” I tell her, suddenly feeling absurdly self-conscious about my feet. I’ve never once thought my shoe size contained any kind of psychological risk before this moment.
Lila’s eyebrows lift immediately, a mischievous grin spreading slowly across her face.
“Eleven, huh?” she says lightly. “Well, you know what they say about men with big feet…”
She pauses just long enough to completely derail my nervous system.
“Big boots to fill.”
I stare at her.
Was that?—
Did she just?—
The smug little sparkle in her eyes answers the question before I can even ask it.
Heat rushes straight into my face.
Lila bites back a smile like she’s trying—and failing—to behave herself.
“You are enjoying this way too much,” I mutter.
“Oh, absolutely.”
She hands me the boots, her fingers brushing briefly against mine. The contact barely lasts a second, but my body reacts to it anyway, pulse jumping hard enough to irritate me.
“Grab some thick socks from that display over there,” she says. “Trust me, you’ll want them.”
I remain standing there holding the boots while my brain desperately tries to recover from the fact that Lila just made a joke about my foot size in the middle of a sporting goods store.
Naturally, the academic part of my brain immediately wants to point out the complete lack of scientific correlation between foot size and other anatomical measurements. But something tells me explaining statistical myths out loud would make this entire interaction catastrophically worse.
Lila watches me struggle through this realization with open amusement.
“Oh my God,” she says, laughing softly. “You were actually about to give me a scientific rebuttal, weren’t you?”
“No,” I lie immediately.
“You absolutely were.” Her grin widens triumphantly.
I sigh and head toward the sock display before I embarrass myself further.
Behind me, Lila calls out casually, “For the record, Professor, I wasn’t complaining.”
I nearly walk directly into a rack of camping lanterns. “I'll just go try these on,” I manage, retreating toward a nearby bench.
As I sit down to remove my damaged oxfords, I catch her watching me with that same amused expression. I lace them up, feeling strangely like I'm preparing for battle. When I stand, the difference is immediate. My feet feel planted, secure against the floor.
“How do they feel?” Lila asks, arms crossed as she surveys me.
“Different,” I admit, taking a few steps. “But good, I think.”
“Walk around a bit. Make sure they don't pinch anywhere. We'll be spending hours on our feet.”
I pace the aisle, aware of her attention tracking me. The boots thud against the floor in a way that feels oddly satisfying, and I find myself standing a little straighter.
As I turn again, something shifts in my peripheral vision.
I glance toward the women’s section and catch three women huddled together, clearly focused in my direction.
The moment they realize I’ve noticed, they scatter into a display of hiking pants, though their whispered conversation doesn’t stop.
One of them—a blonde in a North Face jacket—keeps sneaking glances my way. Her friend nudges her, and they both stifle a laugh.
Are they looking at me?
I turn back to Lila, suddenly aware of every inch of myself. “I think these boots work fine,” I add, trying to ignore the feeling of being watched.
“Good.” She studies me for a second, head tilting. “What’s wrong? You look uncomfortable.”
“Nothing,” I mutter, though I can’t stop myself from glancing back. The blonde is staring outright now, offering a small smile when our gazes meet.
Lila follows my gaze, her eyebrows rising. “Well, look at that. Seems like your new look has some admirers.”