Chapter 7
YARA
Why is it so much harder to pick out clothes when a man’s involved?
On a normal day, my outfit is little more than a fleeting thought. For work, it’s a pair of dress pants and a neutral-colored shirt or sweater, depending on the weather. And when I’m home, it’s whatever’s clean and comfortable.
But tonight? When Ace is due to arrive in only a few hours? That makes the whole getting-dressed process more complicated. Which is why I’ve been standing in my closet for the last ten minutes, debating.
Do I wear my normal Friday night attire of sweats and a T-shirt? We’re just going to be having delivery and watching a movie, after all, so logic tells me it would be silly to dress for more.
But Ace is driving three hours to get here, after a long week of work, no less. Don’t I want to look like I at least made some sort of effort for him? Not like his visit is just an afterthought, rather than something I’ve been looking forward to for days?
Turning away from the stacks of sweatpants and T-shirts, I survey the opposite side of the closet, where my jeans and more form-fitting tops hang.
The new jeans and clingy sweater I bought after work the other day stare at me, silently asking, Why bother buying new clothes if you have no intention of wearing them?
It’s a good question. A great one, really. Why did I spend two agonizing hours at the mall after work to pick out this outfit if I’m going to just leave it sitting in my closet, unworn?
Why did I specifically pick out a green sweater that matches the color of my eyes, spurred on by a comment Ace made last weekend?
It was right after our third kiss—which was even better than the first, for the record—and he looked at me and said, “I’m not sure if I’ve ever said this.
But your eyes are the prettiest color I’ve ever seen. ”
And why did I try on fifteen different pairs of jeans in an attempt to find the pair that makes my butt look the best if I’m just going to wear baggy sweats instead?
So, really, it would be foolish not to wear the new outfit. Not just foolish, but a waste of money. I’m not hurting for it, not with my pay from DynaTech and my savings from years of hazard pay in the Army. But my dad always taught me to be frugal with money.
“Just because we’re comfortable now,” he told me, “doesn’t mean circumstances won’t change.
It’s okay to treat yourself sometimes. Or spend money on things that have a high return on investment, like sending you to the best college.
But spending frivolously just because you can?
It’s risky, Yara. I’ve seen people end up struggling because they didn’t put money away for a rainy day. ”
I took his words to heart, because, even as a teenager, I thought my dad was one of the smartest people I knew.
Not that I never splurge on things—the designer jeans I’m looking at that cost five times the amount I’d usually spend are a glaring example of that.
But the idea of me spending a shocking amount of money on a pair of jeans to wear specifically for a man I’m not even technically dating…
That’s what makes this whole picking out an outfit thing even more challenging.
Ace and I are in this weird sort of in-between stage of our relationship.
We’ve kissed—ten times at last count—which definitely moves us out of the strictly friends zone.
But I wouldn’t say our agreement to see where things go constitutes dating, either.
So that brings me back to the closet conundrum.
On the right side of my walk-in closet are the new sweater and jeans, more fitting for a date than just hanging out with a friend. And on the left, my comfy sweats and worn T-shirts beckon, perfect for a lazy evening at home.
You were wearing comfy clothes last Friday, my inner voice of logic reminds me. And Ace didn’t seem to mind then.
True, I agree. So I grab one of my nicer pairs of sweats—or at least, they don’t have stains or holes in them—and one of my old Berkeley T-shirts.
As I lay them out on the bed, I run through everything I still need to do before Ace arrives.
Shower, of course. Change. Tidy up the kitchen and put out fresh towels and sheets.
Oh, and try not to stress myself out over something as simple as clothes.
While I’m still staring at the sweatpants and T-shirt, my phone buzzes from my dresser with an incoming text. It’s the ringtone I recently assigned to Ace, which makes my heart leap with anticipation. Flinging my pants at the hamper, I rush across the bedroom to snatch up the phone.
In the moment before I read his message, insecurity surges.
What if he’s texting to cancel? it asks.
Maybe the week apart made him realize he’s not interested in this long-distance see where things go thing.
Maybe he’d rather stick with going out in Portland and hooking up with uncomplicated and available women, as I’m sure he does, because crap, he’s a man and just because he’s not ready for a relationship doesn’t mean he lives a life of celibacy.
“Argh,” I mutter as I tap on the screen to read his message. “When did I turn into such an insecure mess?”
But I know the answer, don’t I?
Three years ago, to start. And it’s only gotten worse since Tacoma.
But before I can get too down on myself, Ace’s message lifts my spirits again.
Hey, just finishing up with some Blade and Arrow stuff. Going to take a quick shower before getting on the road. So I should be there around eight. Do you want me to pick up food on the way or wait until I get there to order?
A second later, another message appears.
Really looking forward to seeing you. Feels like it’s been longer than a week.
Awww.
My heart goes all melty.
And then, as the part about his shower registers, other parts of my body respond as well.
My core squeezes at the thought of Ace in the shower, the water sluicing down his thickly muscled body. Then he soaps himself up, rubbing a lathery washcloth across his biceps, his abs, his legs…
In my fantasy, he tosses the washcloth to the side and fists his hard length, stroking it while he thinks of me.
His hand moves faster, drawing out his erection and making it thicker.
Harder. Droplets of pre-cum bead at the tip, leaking steadily.
And when he finally comes, he calls out my name, imagining he’s inside me.
The mental image is so vivid, so tempting, I feel myself going damp. My breath catches. Licks of fire spread through my body.
In my mind’s eye, I suddenly see myself in the shower with him.
Naked, just as he is. Our hands roam each other’s bodies; exploring and caressing.
My hand wraps around his thick length, taking over for him.
As I urge him closer to the edge, his hand comes between my thighs, finding that little bud of nerves and stroking it.
My legs wobble from the sensation flooding through me, and he wraps an arm around me, using his tremendous strength to effortlessly hold me up.
In the midst of my fantasy, my phone buzzes again.
Are you still up for me visiting this weekend? If you have other things you need to do, that’s okay.
Shoot.
I don’t want Ace thinking he’s not welcome. So I quickly text him back.
Of course I am. Whenever you get here is good. Don’t worry about picking up food on the way. We can order once you get here.
As soon as I hit send, I inwardly scold myself. That doesn’t make it sound like I’m looking forward to seeing him. It sounds like I’m chatting with a coworker about who’s ordering lunch for the next team meeting.
So I shoot off another text while the three dots on the screen are still blinking.
I’m really looking forward to seeing you, too. I can’t wait until you get here.
The dots disappear, then start blinking again. Several seconds later, Ace sends another message.
I can’t wait, either.
Friends or friends with kissing benefits or whatever we are, I can’t deny that this new dynamic between me and Ace makes me feel happier than I’ve been in a very long time.
Is it risky, what we’re doing? Absolutely.
I could end up losing Ace as a friend, which I very much don’t want to do.
But one good thing that came out of the incident in Tacoma is that I realized I’m tired of playing it safe.
Exploring things with Ace is risky, yes.
But now that I’m in it, I don’t want to go back.
Glancing between the sweats and T-shirt lying on my bed and the siren call of my closet, I hesitate for a few seconds before making a decision. Then I grab the sweats and bring them back into the closet, coming back out moments later with the new jeans and sweater instead.
Decision made, I hurry into the bathroom to take a quick shower, then do a quick blow dry of my hair to give it some extra body before turning my attention to my makeup.
Or lack of makeup, more like it, since the last time I actually wore anything beyond lip gloss and mascara was at Indy and Bea’s wedding.
But what the heck. I’m already going all out with the new outfit.
Why not add a little pop of color, as Annaliese likes to say, as well?
Nothing too crazy—I want to look like myself and not some weird, dolled-up version of it—so I add a little blush and a light dusting of bronze eyeshadow to bring out the green in my eyes.
After the addition of mascara and a slick of sheer gloss, I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, assessing.
Not too bad, I think. But for a second opinion, I snap a photo of myself and send it off to Annaliese along with a quick message.
What do you think? Too much makeup? Does it look like I’m trying too hard?
I’m not sure if Annaliese will be able to answer right away, given that it’s the middle of the afternoon where she is, which means she’s still at work. But in under a minute, she sends her response.