13. The Glow Up #3
The board of trustees is mostly composed of wealthy senior citizens, kind grandmas and grandpas. I mean, one of them, Tabitha, even has a pony. How can anyone who has a pony be evil?
Besides, if I’m fuzzy on how the ASSET works, the Rylan board is even fuzzier.
That much is clear from our meetings. Rhys knows this.
He’s witnessed how na?ve everyone is. Insulting my Rylan family is just another way he’s lording his superiority over us.
It’s the only way lonely incels like him can feel better about themselves.
“So come on,” Rhys insists, “you need to learn this now.”
“But you just learned to control your personality defects!”
“So what?”
“‘So what?’” To stare at data sets after a breakthrough of this magnitude is like winning the World Series and going back to the office the morning after. I don’t want to work. I want to go to Disneyland.
The last thing I want to do is listen to Rhys’ sanctimonious lecture on how it’s unethical of Rylan Industries to breach the inner sanctum of office space data with the ASSET’s assistance or whatever doom and gloom lesson he wants me to learn.
So my company buys up a few more offices around L.A.? What’s so wrong about that? Rylan is injecting money into the local economy. It just means more of my coworkers have a chance of getting a corner office like me.
“… and let’s talk about the eminent domain takeover plans,” he babbles on and on. “The energy consumption. The frack—” Rhys stops and sighs. “Carina? Are you listening?”
“I have a headache.” I snap my laptop shut. “Let’s save the ASSET for another time.”
* * *
“Nope. Nope.” I flip through Rhys’ scant rack of clothes in an attempt to find something I can work with. I hold up a grey roll-neck sweater with several noticeable holes peppered throughout.
I glance up, debating whether to trash the item.
Rhys watches me with a frown. “We can get rid of this,” he says, meaning to snatch it from me.
“No! This is a keep.” I yank the sweater from its hanger, folding it neatly to delay further stretching. “Even though the holes were not intentional, it has an accidental ‘dystopian’ vibe that’s very in right now.”
“Seriously?” Rubbing his forehead, Rhys gazes at his shrinking clothing rack. “I don’t get fashion.”
“That much is obvious,” I mutter, resuming my survey of his wardrobe. I don’t know why I bother. I’m picking at crumbs. “Nope. Nope. Oh dear...” I yank out another grey hoodie, certain I’m seeing double. “Don’t you own anything that isn’t grey?”
“Of course I do.” He grabs an identical black hoodie and a navy blue T-shirt and holds them up proudly.
I roll my eyes. “Boring.”
“Really?” He glances down at his selection. “But this is a lighter blue. I thought it was pretty wild...”
“Whatever it is, it’s too big for you.” I check the tag. “Do you buy everything in XL? You’re clearly a medium.”
“I used to be heftier until I got into swimming in the mornings. I probably lost 20 to 30 lbs.” He takes the oversized T-shirt from me and holds it up to his now-slender body. “I guess I could update my wardrobe a little.”
I look him up and down, trying to picture him 30 lbs heavier. “Regardless, everything you own is too big for you, and your suits need tailoring. Unless you want to look like a high school junior at prom, we need to go shopping STAT.”
An hour later, we’ve hit our third men’s store at Westfield Culver City. In each store, I’ve dumped a pile of items into Rhys’ unwilling hands and steered him to the dressing room.
Rhys drags his feet. “Must I try all these on?”
“Yes!” I point to the curtained stall. “Don’t come out until you’ve tried on every single item!”
“Dumb,” he mutters.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
I watch him sulk off into the dressing room, tapping my foot like a mom who’d just lost her patience during back-to-school shopping season. No wonder my friends who are moms are always in such a bad mood. If this is what it’s like raising a petulant son, I want no part of it.
After an unreasonably long time in the dressing room, Rhys finally pulls back the curtains, his mouth mashed into a grimace.
He opens his arms, modeling the outfit I picked out for him: slim cream trousers, a burnt sienna cashmere sweater over a cream collared dress shirt, a cognac leather belt, indigo dress socks and a pair of soft leather dress shoes, a lighter shade of cognac to compliment (not match) his belt.
“Wow.” I size him up, feeling like I’m living a scene out of Pretty Woman, except I’m Richard Gere and Rhys is Julia Roberts. “You look...” ‘Hot’ almost trips off my tongue. I can’t call him ‘hot.’ It’ll give him the wrong idea. I clear my throat. “Much improved.”
Rhys pinches his sweater at the waist. “I feel like an orange creamsicle.”
“It’s not orange, it’s burnt sienna.” I step forward and begin smoothing and tucking, keeping my gaze fixed on a safe point on his collar. “Your color analysis says you’re a warm autumn.”
“Warm autumn,” he mutters under his breath.
“Orange, browns, and forest greens bring out your natural olive undertones.”
“And the color of my eyes?”
In a mood to ignore his mockery, I dare a glance up and meet his gaze.
His eyes are also much improved; the hazel shade enriched by his new color palette.
They’re quite startling, his eyes… like a forest canopy flecked with spots of sunlight.
One could get lost adventuring into its depths if one is not careful.
I clear my throat, strangely flustered by his closeness.
I blame the stuffiness of the dressing room, the lack of AC, and not... not on anything else.
“Naturally,” I manage to squeak out. “A color analysis does wonders.”
“I like grey. There’s no grey here.”
“Don’t be dense,” I say, grateful for the change in topic, “some of your trousers are grey, but you shouldn’t wear it up here,” I gesture in the general direction of his face, “it washes you out.”
Rhys frowns down at me. “Does it really matter?”
“It can’t hurt.” I hesitate. “So when you’re ready to date—”
“I’m not ready now?”
I arch a skeptical eyebrow. “Are you still an asshole?”
His mouth twists into a grudging smile. “Noted.”
Still flushed, I pick up a stripped button-down from my curated selection. “Try this on.”
As I watch Rhys yank his sweater over his head, I chew over a question I’ve been meaning to ask.
I’ve held back because I fear he might think it’s too invasive, though for the life of me, I don’t know why it should be.
We’re well past the point of civility here.
I have no reason to suddenly feel shy with this guy.
I’ve called him ‘asshole’ so many times now it’s become an endearing nickname.
I should just ask it. The time for dancing around the issue is gone, assuming it ever existed in the first place. “Soooo… Do you have a girl in mind, or should we just sic you on women in general and see what sticks?”
Struggling with the cuff of his dress shirt, Rhys glances up. “You’re asking me if I have a crush on anyone? Or what’s my type?”
I feel my cheeks grow hot. Somebody needs to do something about that AC.
Rhys ponders this for a while, ineffectually toying with his buttons. “I don’t know if I have a type,” he says. “Just so long as she doesn’t toss her drink in my face.” He glances up. “I’d like another shot with my last date. I guess she’s my type.” He nods in confirmation. “Michelle Santos.”
Michelle, the curvy PA from my former job, whom he called ‘fat.’ So all this time, he’s still moping about his disastrous blind date. I perk up, happy that he’s finally given me a goal to aim for. “I know Michelle!”
“She’s pretty,” Rhys ducks his head, “but I don’t think I made a good first impression.”
Yeah. No shit. If I remember correctly, Michelle described their date as the worst she’s ever been on. “You called her ‘fat’.”
He blinks, indigent. “I don’t think so. ‘Fat’ never left my mouth.”
I massage my forehead, sighing. “What are you? Jekyll at least Rhys wants to change.
He longs to fit into society and lead a normal life if he could only stop getting in his own way.
His social ineptitude is his biggest roadblock, causing pain and destroying egos wherever he goes.
In many ways, he’s like the Creature in Frankenstein, longing to hold a kitten and tragically crushing it to death because he doesn’t know his own strength.
I suppose this makes me Victor Frankenstein, his maker. It’s my duty to teach him how to be human, or, in Rhys’ case, to not be an asshole.
“You really like Michelle, don’t you?” I study his face, assessing his seriousness.
Rhys meets my gaze. “I like her.”
Three simple words. That’s all I needed to hear. Michelle is his kitten. “Let me talk to her,” I volunteer in a spurt of compassion.
I’ve never been this socially inept. I imagine it’s like being a bull in a china shop, breaking tea cups every time you open your mouth. Life must suck when you can’t even romance a woman because you’re an emotionally stunted man with a major case of foot-in-the-mouth syndrome.
His eyes widen. “You can do that?”
“Maybe we can work out a second date.”