Darby
The air-conditioned store thrums with energy.
Ambient electronic music set to the perfect background volume fills the air, along with the scent of expensive cologne.
A well-dressed line snakes toward the register—everyone checking watches and clutching bags, desperate to get to their Christmas Eve plans I'm sure.
I push down the sadness and self-pity that rears its ugly head and remind myself why I'm here—to do, or rather buy, something nice for myself.
And I've come prepared.
I could have followed Minari on Insta and spent countless hours scrolling through immaculately curated images of their latest collections…or I can keep things simple.
I choose simple.
Always.
Striding to the left and straight into the pants section, my eyes sweep across rows of perfectly pressed trousers hanging like silk curtains—charcoal wool, navy cashmere, cream linen.
"Ah, perfect," I say out loud when I find what I'm looking for.
I scoop up my find and march over to formal tops. Shelves of premium shirts stretch out in perfect symmetry. All the colors of the rainbow are on display. But the color I'm looking for isn't in the rainbow.
I'm going for an all black look. It's classic. Timeless. And most importantly, forgiving after all the baking and stuffing of my face I intend on doing over the holidays.
I find my size and am tempted to head straight to join the line to pay and get the hell out of here.
But then I think: what if Minari rich-people clothes sizing is different from H&M regular-people clothes sizing?
The store doesn't reopen until after New Year's Eve, so there's no way to come back and swap what I bought for something that's the right size.
Fearing I've already thought it into existence, I exhale heavily and trudge over to the fitting area.
Inside, the fitting room is so spacious it feels more like a personal lounge than a stall.
Pale-oak walls run floor to ceiling on either side, and the gap under the frosted-glass panel door makes the space feel airy rather than enclosed.
There's a discreet horizontal slot near the door handle, which I assume is for allowing clients and sales associates to pass garments through.
It's all super fancy and oddly calming.
That's a good thing.
I'm not claustrophobic on the same level Sky is, but I'm not the biggest fan of small spaces either.
I think some of his fear might have rubbed off on me over the years, but it's more of a strong preference to avoid enclosed spaces rather than something I absolutely have to do.
Not like him and elevators. He'll always take the stairs.
Well, except for one time…
But in here, I don't feel squished in or like I'm about to run out of air at all.
I place my messenger bag on a white leather Barcelona-style chair, get undressed, and try on the clothes I picked out.
I rotate my shoulders and shimmy my hips, checking for movability.
As much as I want to look good, the older I get, the more I value comfort.
I'm turning twenty-eight next year, which officially pushes me out of mid-twenties into late-twenties, so it's comfort all the way, baby.
I wonder if Crocs do lifetime memberships?
Satisfied I'll be as comfortable as I can hope to be in a crowded nightclub with hordes of sweaty, drunk strangers, I study myself in the full-length mirror, adjusting the collar of the $300 shirt.
Part of me feels guilty about the exorbitant price—the pants are more than triple the cost of the shirt—but then I remind myself that Sky has plenty of money and wants to do this.
Giving is his love language, so I need to believe him when he says I deserve something good after all the shit I've been through this year.
I take myself in.
I've got dark-blond hair that I keep short around the back and sides and a little longer on top.
In summer it goes golden, but it's a dull, not much of anything color now.
My skin is pale, and a few freckles are scattered over my slightly too big nose.
A few small moles dot the side of my neck, one just below my jawline, the other two a few inches down.
The one thing I can honestly say I like is my eyes. They're a rich ocean-blue gift from Grandma Elsie who I loved more than anyone else in my family. They're even slightly asymmetrical just like hers were, too.
My phone buzzes, and I know it's Sky without having to check. I am not going to send him a selfie, which is what he'll be hounding me for. I try to be okay with how I look, but Skylar Hawkins is next-level gorgeous.
Even though we've known each other since we were three, I can't help but get slightly self-conscious around my bestie. Sky doesn't get it because Sky is the only person on planet earth who doesn't see how freaking stunning he is.
I'll message him once I'm out of the store with an Oops, sorry. You'll have to wait until New Year's to see me text.
I unbutton the shirt and place it on the mahogany hanger when a discreet tap on the glass door startles me.
"Excuse me, sir?"
The rich baritone makes me shudder…in an unexpectedly nice way.
"Yes?"
"There's no rush, but I just wanted to inform you the store has now closed."
The words come smooth and velvety, like chocolate fondue.
"Oh, right. Okay. I'm almost done."
"No problem. I can take your items and have them rung up for you at the counter if you like."
"Sure. I just need to, uh…" Take off my pants.
My cheeks flush.
Man, I'm pathetic. Sky would have no problem letting the guy walk in here and see him half naked. I wish I had just a fraction of his self-confidence.
But I don't.
"Gimme a sec."
"No problem."
I peel off the dress pants, the expensive fabric silky smooth as it slides down my legs. I fold them as neatly as I can, and along with the shirt, slide them through the slit in the door.
The attendant's hand brushes against mine, sending a jolt of electricity up my arm.
I pull my hand back sharply.
"Thank you," the man says. "I'll meet you out front when you're ready. Take your time."
I don't respond, not trusting my voice not to come out all shaky and breathless. It's a painful bruise to the ego to realize how dire your love life is when you get turned on by a deep voice and an incidental hand touch from a man you can't even see.
I slip back into my way less divine feeling outfit of dark wash jeans, a plain white tee from H&M, and a navy pullover hoodie. I lace up my white sneakers, sling my messenger bag across my shoulder, check to make sure I haven't left anything behind, then go to open the door.
The door handle feels loose when I press it down, and it makes a faint electronic beeping sound instead of the usual soft click. I pull the door. It's solidly locked in place, and there's a small red light blinking on the handle that I never noticed before.
Panic claws its way up my throat as I realize the electronic part of the door has stopped communicating with the mechanical part of the door to tell it to unlock. I apply as much force as I can to the handle, blindly hoping a bit of elbow grease might cause the electronics to restart.
No luck.
I'm locked in.
"Fucking hell," I grumble.
I wasn't looking forward to Christmas this year at all. This just tops it off. Just when I thought this nightmare year couldn't get any freaking worse…
"Hello?" I call out.
No response.
I call out again.
And again.
And again.
Where the hell is Deep-Voice Guy?
Freaking out, I scream, "Help!"
Silence.
Followed by brisk footsteps.
"You okay in there?"
Deep-Voice Guy is back, but I am very much not okay.
"No. I'm not. I'm locked in."
"Locked in?"
"Yeah. The electronics system seems to have died.
I can't get out of here." I blink back the tears welling in my eyes.
As if this moment isn't bad enough already.
I refuse to add tears to the mix. That can wait for when I'm back home, safely under the covers, resuming my umpteenth rewatch of Bake Off. "I was calling out. Where were you?"
"I'm sorry. I was saying goodbye to my staff and handing out Christmas bonuses. Are you okay? Can I get you anything? Some water?"
"No, it's fine," I reply. "I've got water in my bag. I just… Can you please get me out of here?"
"Of course. I'll go get the master key right away. That will trigger the electronic mechanism, and I'll have you out of there in no time."
"Um…"
"Yes?"
"Will you be gone long?" I wince as soon as I say it, hating that I sound like a scared little baby when I'm a fully grown adult. Though, as stupid as it sounds, I do currently feel like a scared little baby.
The walls aren't closing in on me yet…but they look like they could strike any second now.
"The key is in the back office. I'll be back in a minute. Less than a minute actually."
"Okay."
"I can sing terribly off-key if you like?"
I sag against the wall, grateful Deep-Voice Guy is doing such a good job disguising his judgey-ness at how immature I'm being.
"If you insist."
"Before I traumatize you with that, can I know your name?"
"I'm Darby."
There's a moment of silence.
Then, "Skylar's friend?
"Uh, yep. That's me."
"He told me to expect you. Said he gifted you an unlimited store credit. I'm Kip Minari." He pauses. "I was about to say it's nice to meet you, but I'll save that for when we properly meet. Which will be very soon. I'm going to get the master key now… If that's okay?"
He's either being super thoughtful, or he's low-key shading me.
Either way, I'll take it.
"As long as you don't renege and still serenade me, that's fine."
He chuckles, and it's as low and deep as I expected it to be. "I would never renege. But I have to warn you, my singing is really bad. This is your last chance to change your mind."
"Nope. I'm good. You've set the bar pretty low. I want to hear this bad singing I've been promised."
"Okay, here goes nothing." He clears his throat, and a smile tugs at my lips as he booms the title lyric to "All the single ladies" as he retreats to fetch the key.