Chapter 22 No Such Thing as Too Short
NO SUCH THING AS TOO SHORT
SKYLAR
Mission accomplished.
Mission accomplished so hard that my friends are shocked I didn’t once mention Ford on the show, even when they goaded me.
And they goaded me.
“Who even are you?” Mabel asks as we leave the studio on a Thursday afternoon.
Trevyn seconds that with a: “What she said.”
I spin around on the sidewalk, walking backward, holding my arms out wide. “When you’re good, you’re good.”
“But you’ve never been good at keeping your mouth shut,” Mabel points out.
“Are you sure you’re Skylar? And not her, I dunno, alien replacement?” Trevyn asks.
“I understand it’s hard to accept defeat. But don’t even try to get out of it,” I say, turning around now and walking with them. “You both need to pay up. You said I’d fold.”
Trevyn whistles in appreciation. “We sure did.”
“I was positive you’d cave,” Mabel says with a shrug.
I drape one arm around her, the other around Trevyn. “And I was a badass babe. Time for you two to buy me an outfit for a board game store opening.”
But the thing about thrifting is it’s hit or miss. A few laps through Champagne Taste, we come up empty. With a beleaguered sigh, I pick up a pink tweed blazer with gold buttons and frown. “It’s all Emily Gilmore here today, friends,” I say.
“And old rich white dudes who golf,” Trevyn says, brandishing a pair of green plaid pants and a matching cap.
“Thrifting is shopping roulette. But you can’t win if you don’t play,” I say as I return the jacket to the rack, while Trevyn does the same.
“Another time,” Mabel says on the way out, pushing open the door, the chime of the bell signaling our exit and our failed mission.
“I’ll just have to thrift my own closet,” I say, shielding my eyes from the afternoon sun. “So what exactly does one wear to your ex’s board game store opening?”
Mabel taps her chin, her eyes intense. “Something ridiculously hot.”
“Outrageously sexy,” Trevyn says.
But that doesn’t add up. “For my ex?” I ask, doubtful.
They both laugh, and they both shake their heads.
“Oh, sweet summer child,” Trevyn begins.
“When a hot-ass man who scores goals for a living insists on taking you on a fake date to show your douche-canoe ex what he missed out on, you’d better look—” He turns to Mabel, like they’ve planned this one-two delivery.
“Edible,” she says, “you need to look edible.”
With that brief in mind, I collect Jessica’s mail the following evening, setting it on the entryway table as I picture my closet and its possibilities. I hustle upstairs and hunt through my clothes, assembling option after option for my friends on FaceTime.
As I’m tugging on a pair of vegan leather shorts, Cleo sashays into the bedroom and hops on the pile of clothes.
Of course. Her cat radar for things to leave fur on is strong.
But first, she must bathe. Right as she’s licking a toe bean and I’m buttoning the shorts, my mom’s name flashes across the phone screen.
“Let me call you back,” I tell my friends, then switch over to Mom.
“Oh,” she says, jerking away from the screen.
“Mom! You’ve seen me half-dressed before.”
“I’ve seen you in your birthday suit too. I just wasn’t expecting it.”
Of course, because I was the one who answered on video. I lie on the bed next to Simon, who’s lounging like he’s prepping for an upcoming Playgirl photo spread, then button the shorts. “I’ll make myself decent for you.”
When the shorts are on, along with a tight top, I pick the phone up again. “Want to switch to a regular call?”
“Well, the damage has already been done. But no, this is fine,” she says.
Her screen bounces as she sets towels on a shelf in her closet.
“I just wanted to see if you’d like to do a bookstore and dinner night tomorrow.
Wander around An Open Book, then get some naan and chana masala at our favorite place.
Since it’s the Games People Play opening,” she says sympathetically, then rolls her eyes.
“And I just saw another piece from a reporter at San Francisco Life about it.”
Oh. That’s thoughtful of her. But I am a bad daughter. At our lunch this week, I didn’t tell her I’m attending the opening after all. “Actually, Mom, I’m going,” I say with a smidge of guilt.
The stack of washcloths in her free hand wobbles. “What? Why?”
“It’s kind of a long story.” I sink onto the edge of my bed and tell her, finishing with, “And then he insisted on taking me.”
Her smile is too many shades of delighted. “That’s so sweet.”
Sweet? Is it sweet? It felt more sultry when Ford offered. More feral. More demanding. A hot spark curls down my chest as I remember the dark look in his eyes, the intensity in his voice when he asked. Still, she’s not wrong. It was hot, and heady, and also...sweet. “I suppose it was.”
“Well, have fun on your date then,” Mom says. I can hear the hope in her voice.
Better nip that in the bud. “It’s not a real date, Mom,” I say.
“Right,” she says, but her smile calls bullshit.
“It’s not,” I say again.
“Of course not, dear.”
But I can’t have her thinking it’s real, especially since I know she still feels bad about Landon, even though I’ve told her a million times not to. I can’t let her think it’s authentic since she’ll get her hopes up.
Or will you get your hopes up?
I shush that voice in my head that came out of nowhere. This date is for fun, for show, for getting even. That is all. “It’s just a revenge fake date.”
Mom waves an airy hand, then reaches to a shelf out of the camera’s range. “Hanging out. Revenge fake date. Your generation has such funny terms for dating.”
When she lowers her hand, there’s a stuffed toy in it. Her dog barks in the background. “I should go,” Mom says.
“Tell Taco I hope he enjoys Friday Night Monkey.”
“He always does.”
When I hang up, a new text from my sexy next-door neighbor lands on my phone. Isn’t he at a hockey game? He’s been on the road this week, having played in St. Louis on Tuesday night. Tonight, he’s playing in Vegas.
The game starts in about an hour. My alarm is set to go off so I can settle in on the couch with my pillows, popcorn, pup, and the remote to watch it.
Ford: Can you do me a favor?
Skylar: Sure. But you’re not home, so another hot tub peep show is probably out of the question.
Ford: I’m taking a rain check on that. Mark my words. But the favor is this—I ordered a special plant for tomorrow night’s opening. It arrived earlier today. I’d rather not leave it unattended on my porch all night.
Skylar: There has been a rash of plant thieves in the neighborhood. You really can’t be safe enough.
Ford: It needs water, Skylar. I won’t be home till after midnight.
Skylar: So it needs water to activate the poison? How much? Be precise. Be very precise.
Ford: Unfortunately, going to prison for poisoning would make it hard to win the Cup in my final season. However, I am not above being an asshole, so I found a plant that smells like cat pee.
Skylar: I could kiss you for that. Nope. Let me revise that—I could get on my knees for that.
Ford: That image will be indelibly etched in my head even when I hit the ice in an hour. But for now, can you water it?
Skylar: Of course. The pee plant must be cared for like it’s a precious thing till tomorrow night. I will water it with a dropper all night long if I have to.
Ford: Just a quarter cup should do. Also, you can leave it in the metal bin on the front porch. The one for Styrofoam recycling. That way, critters won’t be able to nibble on it. Just don’t bring it inside.
Skylar: Yes, Ford. That was clear.
I’ve already poured the water from the sink, and I’m racing up the steps to his home when an idea lands. One nearly as nefarious as Ford’s. Or maybe more nefarious. But it’s good to be sure things work. I water the plant, double back to my house, and take care of one last pre-revenge detail.
On Saturday night, I’m feeling almost too hot. This outfit is a little…how shall we say, in your face? The shorts are short, the corset is tight, and there’s so much skin on display. I really should see if this is what my friends meant.
But right when I’m about to convene an impromptu meeting on my phone, I stop. I can hear Mabel’s voice, loud and bright in my head. “You’d better look edible.”
Then Trevyn calling Ford a hot-ass man.
Maybe theirs aren’t the opinion I want. Maybe they’re not the ones I’m dressing for. The hot-ass man is.
I text Ford.
Skylar: Can you tell me if these shorts are too short for tonight? I can take a pic.
Ford: The answer is there’s no such thing as too short. But how about that hot tub peep-show rain check? Go to your kitchen window right now, and I’ll check from the hot tub level.
A stupid smile spreads across my face. This is the kind of game I want to play.
With a breathlessness I didn’t expect, I head downstairs and rush over to the window.
I pace back and forth, like I’m playing Pin the Tail on the Donkey, trying to find the spot where he can see me best when a text lands.
Ford: I was right. Also, wear heels.
I was right too. He’s not too sweet at all.
The pee plant doesn’t smell terrible as we walk to Games People Play, but we are outside.
“Are you sure this works?” I ask, peering at the small plant in the terra-cotta pot. It’s a shockingly pretty plant. But that’s typical, I suppose. Pretty things can be deadly.
“I’m not a botanist, but if you’d like, I can stop by Landon’s store in a week and check.”
“You really would do that?”
He stops at the corner, studies my face, and nods. “I would, Skylar. I would.”
Goosebumps erupt across my skin. “You’re hot when you’re evil.”
His lips curve, and he never takes his eyes off me as he says, “Same for you, Skylar. Same for you.”
As we walk, I can feel his eyes on me the whole time. Yes, I’m glad I dressed for him, because I like how I feel right now. Pretty and deadly.