Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
I CAN HANDLE A ZIPPER
HUDSON
I can say with certainty I have never been in this position before.
Which one, you might be wondering? Take your pick.
Specifically at this moment I’m talking about the husband chair they put outside dressing rooms for men like me.
Not like me, but in optics. The ones their wives drag along shopping, even though they don’t trust their opinions, they are still desperate for their attention.
It’s different for us obviously. Neither of us can fully explain why, but it’s why I find myself sitting here on this tufted relic positioned for supportive spouses, for spectatorship, for a man who should be bored and detached.
I should be at work, but here I am, the ankles of my wife, my fucking wife, darting back and forth under the door, the shuffling of fabric and mismatched socks the only visible sign of her progress.
I am more transfixed by the dancing of her feet beneath the door than most men are when their wives are across from them at dinner.
Every few minutes, the dressing room door swings open, and she emerges a small tidal wave of energy, floating toward the carpeted platform and the tri-fold mirror.
Every angle and posture as she flicks her hair is amplified in reflection to me.
My jaw threatens to unhinge itself, drop to the floor while my brain is doing its best not to leak the entire contents of my skull.
This option is a soft mustard color, I couldn’t tell you about the fabric except she twirls, and I watch the folds fan out around her.
But no amount of ‘twirl factor’ kept it from being discarded, hung back onto the rack of rejects.
I don’t know what rubric of judgement she’s using.
I’m pretty sure it’s ‘vibes.’ But she sees something I don’t, because each dress she puts on is more striking on her than the last.
“What about this one?” she asks. “Stunning? Gorgeous? Fabuuulous?” She changes her voice with each word. Sometimes I wonder if I can hear the slightest accent come through like a wink from her parentage, usually I decide it’s the choice of acting that she lets out.
“Nice,” I say. I’m at the point now, I was six dresses ago, where every word that slips from my lips is one too many. Because this one, much like all of the other ones, requires me to adjust in my seat, anxious at the thought of how flawless she looks.
“Hmm, I don’t think ‘nice’ is what I’m going for, I’m looking for more of a ‘there’s no other option, I’m completely obsessed, you look like a goddess and are going to impress everyone you meet’ kind of dress.”
“Sounds like a lot of pressure for a dress.”
“Or a person,” Louisa says as she steps back into the dressing room and I watch the mustard-yellow fabric drop to her feet as she steps out of it.
“I’ll just put you over here, sorry, no offense,” she says, to the dress, as she must add it to the pile but of course would be remiss not to apologize for the rejection to the inanimate object.
It’s not the first time I’ve found her communicating with things that have never once communicated back.
I spent a good fifteen minutes listening to her from the hallway as she unloaded dishes from the dishwasher with each one saying something like ‘don’t you look spiffy,’ and ‘wait until the plates see you.’ It’s a level of endearing I didn’t know existed.
She shows more kindness to the items in her life than many people do other people.
“I’m pretty sure this next option is actually black tie, not just formal,” she says, over the dressing-room door.
“What’s the difference?”
“It has to do with structure,” she emphasizes before continuing. “The internet is merciless if you confuse formal attire for black-tie attire. I went down a rabbit hole I have not fully recovered from on the drive over.”
When she emerges this time, and it is emerging, time slows so I can have an extra millisecond to look at her, and I'll take what I can get.
It looks like it’s formed against her body, everything above the waist is precisely corseted, her breasts more exposed than I’ve seen them since I saw them, and as the dress releases from where it’s cinched at her waist, a flower detail that feels like her, even in this structured gown, as it follows the line of her hips to the floor.
But I can’t say all of that. So all I say?
“Blue is good.”
“It’s cornflower,” she specifies, and I give a short nod, keeping my lips pressed together tightly.
Cornflower, or whatever else it might be, pulls the tones from her skin and makes her look ethereal.
She gathers the dress in her hand as her neon nails contrast the elegance of the fabric she’s holding so she doesn’t trip as she walks back towards the platform and mirror.
I haven’t let anything break my view of her, not even sure if I’ve blinked, wouldn’t be worth it.
“You’re staring and I can’t tell if it’s a good thing, or a really bad one.
” Louisa’s eyes are on mine through the reflection of the mirror.
Which is giving me the unique, and painful, opportunity to have a perfect view of her ass in fabric that clings to it like it’s only fucking job, while her eyes find mine in the glass and hold, and it's not the dress that's going to be the problem. It’s every time she looks at me.
“It’s a good thing.” ‘Good’ is insufficient, just like I am. I clear my throat, she spins on her heels and hops back towards me, totally unaware of how affected I am. Memorizing every movement twists my stomach in a way I don’t think I’ve experienced before.
“If this is your way of hinting that I should hurry up and pick one, you can just say that.” Her usual brightness is sharper at its edges. What she doesn’t realize is despite my curt replies, and best interest, I would sit here all fucking day.
“This is the one.” And it is, we both know it is. She retreats back behind the dressing room door, I hear the huffing as the time ticks on until the door cracks only the smallest amount and her voice sneaks out even smaller.
“Hudson, can you get Lila?” As soon as we got here, Louisa got her name, her life story, and an offer from the fashion-student-slash-sales-associate, to make Louisa’s gala dress next year.
Sorry, Lila, I’ll be back to solo by then.
Even though I’m pretty sure Louisa will have gotten an invite for life if she wants one.
“What do you need?” I’m on my feet, the smallest tone in her voice sounds anxious, something I have found myself able to pick up on more than I am my own emotions at this point.
“I’m just a little stuck. She helped me zip into it, but now… well, I guess this is a good lesson to learn now rather than night of.”
“I would have gotten you out of it.” The words are calm as I say them, but my tone betrays me, gruff as it comes out. Her bottom lip pops open like she wasn’t expecting me to say it. Neither was I.
With a quick glance it’s clear we’re the only ones here, Sales Associate Lila off attending to a different shopper, perhaps one who had a clearer sense of what they are looking for because Louisa said she wanted something ‘friendly that makes a good impression’ and we’ve been here for over an hour.
What we landed on may be ‘friendly and makes a good impression’ to her, but to me, it’s ‘no one will shut the fuck up about how gorgeous she is while also occupying every fucking thought I have until I die’ and yes, will ‘also make a good impression.’ Casual, right?
“I’ll do it.” I move towards the door. She hesitates, just a blink, and steps aside, and the small space shrinks immediately as I step in. Her scent drifts towards me first, and I inhale the taste of air that wraps around her.
She is a race of my senses and I am losing more sense with each.
Her eyes widen and her bottom lip glistens like it’s expecting me to pull it into my mouth as desperately as I want to pull her into my arms and slam us against the wall.
She breaks the lock our eyes have on each other, and turns to face the mirror, presenting the zipper in my view with the same casual, kind innocence she exists with in the world.
I take another step closer, towering behind her.
Our eyes reconnect through the reflection that is holding every unsaid thought between us.
Maybe this time, holding memories I replay more than I should.
I place my hand on her shoulder, and can feel the short breath she inhales as I sweep the hair from her neck.
Moving it out of the way. My other hand grips the small tab and drag it down, watching the teeth of the zipper separate, exposing her skin as I do.
Afraid that if I move any faster, the speed would betray me.
The hand resting on her shoulder follows the length of the zipper sliding down her back landing on her waist, where it waits for the zipper to fully expose her back.
The dress yields to me, my knuckles grazing her spine as it does.
And the thought pulsing through me? We haven’t been this close since that night.
She must be able to feel my pulse, if not hear it.
And if she were to step even a fraction of an inch back, her ass would press against my erection fighting against a zipper of its own.
The tiny quiver I feel from her is not a provocation but subconscious surrender, one she has no emotional control over, one I cannot fucking touch. No matter how much I want to.
The sides of the dress each released, she clutches the fabric to her chest, knowing if she were to let go, it would fall to the ground, exposing her breasts.
There’s no doubt in my mind she can feel the warmth I let out with each exhale, because out of the corner of my eye I can follow the trail of goosebumps down her spine, right to the dip of her back where a pair of underwear is sneaking out.
She steps just out of my grip and I urgently slip my hands into my pockets before they act of their own accord and take this a step too far. Like I have before.
“So,” she says, sunny again, like we weren’t both just sitting on the same ledge with our feet slipping into the deep end of a pool.
“This gala, is there a band, are there rules, how’s the food, is there dancing?
” Her tone is back to bright in a way she pulls light from within regardless of the season.
With more excitement about a silent auction and dance floor than I’ve ever shown about anything.
“Yes, there’s music. The food is fine, for $1500 a head, it should be better.
Dessert is always a disappointment. The rules, besides black tie, are to convince everyone in the room that they are there because they care, rather than because their name on the program costs less than a lawsuit.
Smile big, bid generously, and don’t say anything honest until you’re back in the car.
” I take a pause, knowing how cynical I sound.
But it’s not untrue. “And generally there is dancing, but personally, there is not.”
She’s shifted the conversation in a way that has us both ignoring the fact that she is half dressed.
Something my eyes realize before my brain as they drop to the column of her neck, where it leads down to cleavage and fabric she is clutching too tightly.
I see her swallow, and that has a different thought flooding my head.
Both of them. I clear my throat with a short forced cough, and turn so my back is to her.
Implying the privacy she would have if I just left, something I can't bring myself to do.
“Guess that explains why we never had a first dance,” Louisa says. I can hear the fabric shuffling as she’s changing out of the cornflower-blue dress and putting back on her jeans.
“For the best. I only have one move anyway.”
“Now I’m definitely going to need to see it. I’ll even fight away all the other women who are clawing after you if I have to,” she says and I can hear the smile spreading across her face as easily as if I could see it.
“You are my wife,” I say low and careful. “That means you’re the only one entitled to any of me.” My mind is somewhere between hiking up her dress here and now, and putting the entire square footage of this shop between us for her own safety. Both feel equally urgent.
Neither feels possible.
I have been telling myself the same thing since the night she showed up at my door, and every version of the argument I've made to myself since then has been technically correct and completely fucking useless.
I’m doing my best. Which at this moment, is not enough.
She just laughs in reply, something she does naturally. It’s a sound that could be bottled as a remedy for the worst long night to outshine anything dark that exists within me. I drink it up every time I hear it.
I feel a soft tap of her finger on my shoulder, having come up behind me, dressed and ready to go. Gown in hand. I exhale deeply, step out of her way, and guide her from this small space that will hold a moment I plan to revisit frequently.
Particularly tonight, when my earbuds are in, and her voice is the only thing playing.