Chapter 8 Friday
Friday
(Twenty-Six Days Left)
I have spent the last few nights completely consumed with the task of finding Finn on social media.
I’ve learned techniques from some of the best fictional FBI technical analysts in the business, from both my books and my proclivity for procedural crime shows, and if Finn were out there, he’d have nowhere to hide.
All I came up with was one photo of him in a recreational soccer league, which, when cropped, was enough to use for a reverse Google image search that yielded zero results.
Even though I couldn’t find him, his lack of online presence alone gave me valuable insight.
I saw this as an opportunity to connect with Finn, and I took it.
“I’m so over my phone, especially social media,” I had lied to him on Wednesday, while we jointly monitored the monkey bars to ensure only one kid went at a time.
He nodded vigorously in agreement. “I’ve been so much happier since I deleted all my socials last year.” I knew it. He’s completely off the grid. Hot. Very hot.
While reaching an arm up to rest on one of the bars, he revealed a sliver of tan skin between the bottom of his T-shirt and the waist of his jeans. I averted my eyes quickly, feeling uneasy about the warm feeling taking place in my lower abdomen while on monkey bar duty.
“Why live in Southern California if you’re just going to spend all day glued to a screen?” he added.
“Exactly,” I agreed with my entire chest, knowing full well that I’d spent hundreds of hours this summer watching Law my internal monologue takes on Sandy’s voice.
I blast the AC, which, unfortunately, does nothing but recycle hot stale air from outside into my Jetta.
With a cold sweat spreading from my palms to my fingertips, I grab my insulated water bottle, twist off the top, and plunge my fist inside, grabbing as many ice cubes as I can.
Clutching them until they melt, I count all the way to sixty, and then I text Nora that I’m here, leaving Matthew’s text unanswered.
—
“It’s perfect!” I tell the seamstress, Cindy, hoping she can’t tell that I’m holding my breath. One wrong move and the freshly sewn seam of the black satin dress could burst, but it technically fits, which is more than I can say about the first two alteration attempts.
Cindy smiles, proud of the work she’s done on my dress, and I decide in that moment that it fits well enough.
“Thank you so much, Cindy,” I tell her while stepping away from the mirror and attempting to go to the changing room.
“Not so fast,” Nora asserts from the corner of the room with her hands on her hips. “You’re turning blue,” she adds dryly.
Cindy steps toward me and fiddles with the straps. “It’s too tight?”
I look at my reflection in the mirror, Cindy tinkering with the left strap of my dress and Nora with the right, a devil and angel on my shoulder, respectively.
“It’s too tight,” Nora confirms.
I bite my lip to keep from arguing with her, because she’s right. It’s too tight.
Cindy takes her measuring tape and wraps it around my chest.
“You’re a lucky girl,” she tells me.
Nora nods in agreement.
“She has the best tits,” she tells Cindy with a casual familiarity that only Nora could pull off. I wince. “If she would only show them off once in a while….” Nora teases, and I take a second to admire my reflection.
I know why Jamie picked out this dress for me; it shows off all the features I usually try my best to camouflage with an oversized tee: the satin hugs my hips and the low neck accentuates my cleavage in a way that I’m not entirely hating.
I try to imagine how I’ll look with my hair straightened, a request from Jamie that I begrudgingly accepted.
The coarse texture of my curls makes my hair impossible to style in an appropriate amount of time, and only for Jamie would I subject myself to the particular type of torture that straightening my hair requires: two hours in a salon chair under fluorescent lighting.
Although, looking at myself in this dress, I can’t help but anxiously anticipate how I’ll look with my frizz tamed.
I turn around and throw my chin over my right shoulder to get a better look at the back of the dress.
With an eyebrow raised and my eyes locked on my ass, I ask Nora, “Has that always been there?”
Nora steps behind me and arranges us so we’re both looking into the mirror head-on.
“Phoebe,” she starts. “It should be illegal for you to wear your T-shirts and baggy jean shorts with this kind of body.”