Chapter 23 Him
Him
Then
I don’t approach the store right away when you unlock the door and turn the sign in the window to Open.
It would be too weird. Who goes into a place like that the moment it’s open for business, like they’ve been hanging around just waiting for the opportunity?
No one. That’s who. I linger outside for another fifteen minutes, forcing myself to give it a suitable amount of time, even though I’m beyond eager to finally make your acquaintance.
Because the past few weeks, watching from afar, have been unbearable.
And I know you would feel the same, if only you were aware of me.
But now, my sweet, beautiful Raven, I’m moving our relationship to the next level, and it’s going to be perfect.
The chemistry is undeniable. We’ll be so good for each other.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s just take this moment as it comes.
I step off the sidewalk and cross the road.
Cindy’s Closet is one of those trendy, chic places that uses words like vintage and repurposed to fool its customers into thinking they’re buying something other than old used clothes.
That purchasing someone else’s shabby castoffs makes them somehow more cool or interesting.
It’s not the kind of establishment I would frequent if you didn’t work there—I find the thought of wearing another person’s secondhand garments distinctly unappealing—but I’m willing to be open minded.
Because relationships are all about personal growth, and you must think it’s fine, and who knows, maybe you’ll change my mind.
But not yet. Our meet-cute will have to wait a little longer.
Because I’m only halfway to the front door when someone else beats me to it.
A painfully undernourished young woman all dressed in black with a complexion so pale I’d think she was a vampire if it wasn’t broad daylight.
She’s carrying a cloth bag over her shoulder that’s bulging with clothes, which I’m sure she wants to sell because why else would she be taking clothes into the store?
I ease up and try to look casual, like I’m not going where she is, and let the vampire go ahead of me.
I linger near the window, far enough away that I won’t be noticed, and peer casually inside past the mannequins with their mismatched garments that do nothing to make me want to shop here.
I hope you weren’t responsible for this dreadful display of window dressing, Raven, but I don’t think you are, because you dress yourself with flair and style, and whoever did this clearly has no talent in that department.
And if I need further proof of your good taste, you aren’t buying what the vampire is selling.
I watch you pull clothes out of the bag and go through them one by one, putting a single garment aside before giving the rest back to her.
When she leaves, her bag is still bulging and there’s a scowl on her face.
I’m proud of you for not wasting your employer’s money on threadbare garbage.
Now it’s my turn. Butterflies are swarming in my stomach. This is the moment. Our moment, and I want it to be perfect.
When I open the door, you glance up. Our eyes meet. A faint smile touches your lips before it’s over and I’m moving deeper into the store.
It’s nicer inside than I expected, for a place that sells used clothing.
Exposed brick walls offset a floor of deep polished oak.
The lighting is bright but not harsh. Clothes hang on faux-antique iron racks, sorted by size and style.
An old nineties song that I vaguely recognize is playing.
I think it’s the Cure. They appear to be obsessed with Fridays.
I make my way to the rear of the store and the men’s section.
I need a reason to be here, after all. I paw through the shirts, and I’m pleasantly surprised.
The garments are not dreadful. I spot lots of designer labels, many of them clearly vintage.
Now it makes sense why the vampire left with most of the clothes that she came in with.
You only take the best pieces. And strangely, I actually find something I like.
A gray cotton shirt with small brass buttons and a band collar.
I don’t recognize the brand, but I’m not exactly a fashionista.
My aesthetic is more subtle. I like to blend into the background.
I’m not sure this shirt will achieve that, but it will serve its purpose.
I have to purchase something so it won’t look strange that I came in here, even if I don’t intend to ever wear it.
I browse the racks for a few minutes more, just for show, but nothing else catches my eye. Which is good, because one secondhand shirt is enough.
No one else has come in. We are still alone. It’s you and me.
I take the shirt and approach the front of the store. You’re focused on your phone, which you hold in one hand while tapping at the screen with the other. When I place the shirt on the counter, you look up, pretending that you’ve only now noticed me.
“Hi.” The smile from when I walked in comes back.
“Hello.”
“Just the one item?” you ask, as if you’re surprised that I’m not buying an entire rack.
“Guess I didn’t see anything else I liked.” Except you.
“Too bad. Maybe next time.” When you put the phone down—go to pick up the shirt—your sleeve rides up to offer a glimpse of the tattoo. The one that first caught my attention. You hold my shirt up and study it, then turn your attention back to me. “I like the color. Matches your eyes.”
“Thank you.” I look down at the counter and the phone.
A casual glance. You’ve been texting. I see mention of drinks tomorrow night.
A bar. The New Brew. Today is Friday, so that makes sense.
I wonder who you’re talking to. There’s no way to tell.
And even if there was, it’s too late. The screen goes black.
I lift my eyes again, my gaze roaming your shirt on the way up, hoping there’s a name badge.
There isn’t. I could introduce myself, give you a name—false, of course—in the hope that you will reciprocate, but that is too much.
For now, you are still only Raven.
“I haven’t seen you in here before.” You ring up the shirt, take it off the hanger, and fold it, then slip the shirt into a brown paper bag.
I shrug. “First time, but hopefully not my last.” Yeah, right.
I’m not coming back in here again. Apart from the obvious—that I don’t like to be seen in the same place too often—I’m still not sold on the concept of overpaying for used clothes just because they are nicely presented.
I change the subject, nodding toward a sewing machine in a nook to the right of the counter. “You do alterations here, too?”
You look around at the sewing machine, then back to me.
“Kind of, but not for customers. Sometimes the stuff we get in here needs repair, and I also upcycle some of our less interesting clothes. Kind of create my own Frankenstein fashions from them.” She nods toward a garment hanging on a hook near the sewing machine.
A multicolored shirt made from a patchwork of fabrics.
“That used to be three different tops. I cut them up and put them back together as one piece.”
“You’re very talented,” I say, and I mean it, because the top is actually pretty cool.
“Thanks.” A faint blush touches your cheeks. “This is hardly what I had in mind after four years of college and a degree in fashion design. But hey, everyone has to start somewhere.”
They do, indeed. I smile. “I see big things in your future.”
“That’s nice of you to say.” Your blush deepens even as you push the bag containing my shirt across the counter. “That’ll be $39.50.”
“A bargain.” I pull a wad of cash from my pocket, because I never put stuff like this on a credit card, and peel off four tens, which I hand over, then tell you to put the change in a charity box sitting on the counter.
I pick up the bag and go to leave, making for the exit.
“Hope to see you again sometime,” you call after me.
I push the door open, then look back at you before I step outside. “You can count on it.”