Chapter 8
There was nothing wrong with the way she looked in the mirror, but there was something off that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. She always looked like this.
As soon as the thought occurred to her, she realized maybe that was the problem.
Natalie groaned in frustration as she tugged the pale blue sweater over her head and dropped it to the floor. How did she used to do this?
Staring at the pile of discarded clothes on her bed, which was now spilling onto the floor, she realized that Jordan had never cared what she wore—he always just told her she looked great.
Was that a good thing? Was it because he thought I looked great no matter what or because he wasn’t paying that much attention?
Trying to shake that thought loose, she crossed to her wardrobe. What was something she hadn’t worn in a while? The answer struck her—the red dress with the black stitching. She snapped her fingers and began to paw through the hangers, but it wasn’t there.
“Darn,” she muttered as she realized it was probably in storage, considering she hadn’t worn it since long before last fall.
As she left her room and climbed the stairs, her phone lit up with quick-fire questions from Izzy, Louise, and her aunt.
From Izzy: Oh, yes, the red dress that makes you look like Jessica Rabbit.
From Lou: I hardly think Jessica Rabbit is what she’s going for…
From Aunt Maddy: Have you looked at where he’s taking you? Is there a dress code?
From Izzy: I don’t mean exact proportions, Lou. I just mean, like, a drop-dead knockout in a red dress.
From Lou: okay so say that???????
From Mom: do you have a ride home tonight? I don’t want this guy driving out here—you know, men will try any excuse to stay over.
The budding argument between Izzy and Lou would’ve been enough, but the comment from her mom was the last straw—she hit the Do Not Disturb button and locked her phone.
Natalie sighed as she approached the closet in the storage room and opened the doors.
The house was pretty big—especially considering when it was built—but her room had always been small.
With just enough room for her bed, a desk, and a two-in-one wardrobe and closet—despite not being the biggest clothes hoarder in her circle of friends, she had always kept her off-season stuff in the storage space.
Rediscovering the clothes after six months almost feels like finding them at a store. Let them duke it out, let Mom lecture to thin air, and let me go fake shopping.
Something in the vines caught her attention as she glanced through the window. Someone was out there, in the rows. She flicked her phone over to check the time—way after closing time.
“What the…?” she whispered as she squinted, trying to see. Then she remembered the binoculars.
Grabbing them from the shelf near the door, she quickly returned to the window and focused them on the figure.
“What the heck?” she exclaimed, nearly shouting, as she saw who it was.
Storming downstairs, Natalie nearly tripped three times but would not slow down. Being an aloof know-it-all in front of university people was one thing, but coming to the estate—to her home, no less—and sneaking around in the rows was completely unacceptable.
The cool evening air caught her off guard, and she shivered as she jogged across the gravel.
The question of why Mr. Smarty Pants was there at all, let alone why he had chosen a section so close to the house and not headed out to Section Nine, echoed in the back of her mind.
She was, however, too angry about it to care.
“Excuse me,” she called, trying to keep her voice level despite the miniature sprint she had just completed from the house. “But this area is off-limits to the public. Please leave.”
The figure turned toward her with one hand held up; the other was holding a leaf very gently. “I’m not doing anything detrimental,” Mr. Snide said, glaring. “I’m helping.”
“By trespassing?” she shot back, furious that her tone hadn’t immediately sent him packing.
She thought Gran would’ve been able to send him away with a look.
“I’m not trespassing. I’m a visitor,” he said, gesturing around vaguely. “And a customer. Aren’t you people dedicated to giving every guest a memorable visit to Fitzgerald Acres?”
Balking at his words and misnomer, Natalie tried to place why they sounded so familiar. Internally, she groaned. It was a hatchet job on the marketing paraphernalia they had put together a few months prior.
“Funny,” she said. “But even if parts of the estate are open to the public during specified hours, those hours are over. Besides, the rows are always off limits because we don’t know what kinds of fungus people might have on their shoes.”
There was a moment of complete silence as he met her eyes. The look on his face was the same as the one he had given her in Section Nine—like he thought she was completely crazy.
“Yeah…” he said slowly. “I get that.” As he spoke, he slowly lifted his right foot slightly off the ground and pointed at it as if he were showing it to a toddler.
Confused, she followed his gesture with her eyes and saw that he was wearing weirdly puffy white shoes. As she scanned his outfit, she realized the man was wearing shoe covers and gloves. Embarrassment coiled in her stomach, and she could feel herself withdrawing.
“I’m not an idiot,” he said, shaking his head.
“I didn’t say that you were,” she replied. “I said you were trespassing.”
“Oh my God!” he exclaimed, turning toward her. “I am helping. Or, at least, I’m trying to.”
Without really meaning to, she scoffed, and he glared. “Really? If what you were doing was above board, you wouldn’t be sneaking around. You would’ve approached us and asked.”
“And you would have just said yes? Or would you have tried to hide it like you did on the tour?” he shot back.