Chapter 7
sofía
“Is that a shopping cart escalator?” Jett sprints to the mall entrance, eyes wide in wonder as a woman and a child ascend to the second level with their cart full of shopping bags. “A grocery store, too? Oh my god, this place is incredible.”
For someone who only slept for a few hours, he shows no visible response to the jet lag.
I, however, stepped off the plane grimy and sticky—as if I had been tossed into a dumpster outside a nightclub after rolling around on the dance floor.
Where are the dark bags under his eyes? Mine are damn near beacons for extraterrestrial life, they’re so large.
I had finally figured out how to turn the power on in the bathroom to blow dry my hair when Jett knocked, ready for our “shopping date.” He waited while I got ready, scrolling on his phone, while the panic set in and I rushed to get ready.
Outside of the occasional laugh—which I’m assuming was for his phone and not me—he made no comment or complaint about the wait.
It was on the tip of my tongue to apologize, but ultimately, I kept it to myself.
Sydney zipped by in a blur on the taxi ride to the large shopping mall, and my blazer stuck to my skin. I refused to complain because it would only prove Jett was right, and the last thing I wanted to hear was “I told you so.”
I trail him as he oohs and ahhs at the various stores and kiosks.
There’s a grocery store, a few banks, a liquor shop, places to eat, and dozens of clothing and home goods stores.
He gasps at a donut stand but then bolts to a center kiosk selling hand sushi rolls and other fried foods, the greasy aroma filling the air.
“Hungry?” he asks, eyeing the display case. A massive grumble lets loose from my stomach, answering for me, and he chuckles. “Any dietary restrictions?”
I shake my head, and he rattles off different options. A sushi connoisseur, I am not, but I’m pretty confident teriyaki chicken is not traditional. He pays, and we find a small table to eat at, the sounds and scents of the mall surrounding us.
“We could split them in half,” I offer. “Do they have knives?”
My suggestion is two seconds too late. Jett lifts the first sushi roll—a fried vegetable tempura—and takes a massive bite, then holds what remains between us.
Leaning forward, I take a nibble, and the flavor explodes on my tongue, a tiny moan escaping as I chew. Shit, this is good. I steal another bite before Jett pulls the roll away. Wide hazel irises stare back at me as I swallow.
“Sorry,” I mumble, mouth full. I cover my lips with my hand to save what’s left of my dignity until I swallow. “That was better than I expected.”
“It’s mad delicious,” he confirms, glancing down at the stack of soy sauces on the table. “They’re fish! Charlie and Mateo would love these,” he says, scooping up a handful to take a photo. “The shape,” he clarifies, “not the single-use plastics.”
“Right,” I sigh, eyeballing another sushi roll, one filled with fresh salmon and avocado.
Even while busy doing something else, the man doesn’t miss a thing and slides the food across the table. “Eat up. Can’t shop on an empty stomach.”
“Harder to try on clothes when you’re bloated,” I say, though I take another nibble.
Jett pauses mid-bite and pulls the avocado roll from his mouth. “What?”
Horrified eyes fly across my face, and discomfort crawls along my skin like tiny venomous ants. What did I say?
“You know,” I laugh, trying to lighten the mood, but his features intensify. “If I eat too much, then I’ll look funny in some of the clothing.”
“Look…funny?”
The way he repeats the words, a slow drag of each syllable, sets me on edge. I begin to babble. “You know, when you eat and then you’re bloated, so the clothes fit poorly? Especially if you’re wearing something form-fitting.”
His jaw hangs open, and he sets down the sushi. “Has someone told you that?”
Why does he look heartbroken? And why does it make me sick?
A knot tightens in my chest, wrapping around my heart. No matter how long it’s been since I left Tommy, the quiet voice persists. “Maybe once or twice, but what woman hasn’t heard that?”
He rubs a hand over his forehead, like adding friction will help him process my words. I don’t like his response or the way it makes me out to be the wild one here.
“That’s not right,” he says, gentler than I’ve ever heard from him. “Clothes are meant to fit you. Not the other way around.”
“I meant to say—”
What did I mean to say?
That in my last long-term relationship, I was told I was less attractive after I ate? Or maybe how he would avoid any initiation of intimacy after I had eaten and my stomach wasn’t flat? Or his suggestion I wear Spanx underneath outfits to “smooth my curves”?
Words fizzle out on my tongue, and I’m caught floundering, uncomfortable and exposed even though I’ve said nothing at all.
“I don’t know who told you that,” he murmurs, “but it’s untrue. It was a cruel thing to say to you.”
Chewing on my lip, I digest his words, process the way they burrow into that piece of decay Tommy left behind, until they dig roots and heal over the wound.
In the eight months I’ve known Jett, I’ve never heard an untruthful word fall from his lips.
His authenticity and the tinge of disgust in his eyes when he pieced together my meaning allow the declaration to settle.
I have no response to offer him, so I pick up the sushi roll and eat every morsel. Then I eat another. Then the last gyoza until I’m so stuffed he might have to roll me into the shops.
It’s freeing and horrible all at once. Jett finishes the last of the food, then asks, “Ready to shop ’til you drop?”
“That might happen now,” I admit, food sinking in my stomach.
We meander through the mall, peeking into shops and pausing at center kiosks to chat with vendors. There’s no clear path, hallways crisscrossing and circling around each other, and we get lost twice before we navigate back to an area we recognize.
A shop full of simple, beachy clothing catches my eye, the light creams and earthy tones drawing my focus.
“Let’s go into that store,” Jett declares.
He whisks us into the small shop, arm looped in mine. It’s nice, I’ve decided, to have someone else make the plan. I’m simply along for the ride instead of being the driver.
Soft indie music plays out from the speakers, customers milling through the racks of linen tops and flowy skirts. An employee’s eyebrows lift in surprise when we enter, calling out a quick greeting before disappearing.
Clothing covers the walls on each side—long maxi dresses and short silk slips and bright blouses. Earthy tones meet groovy seventies vibes, and I can’t work fast enough to identify all the items I love.
A flowy pink sundress. A matching set with a green floral pattern. A white top with bow ties in the back.
By the time we reach the back of the store, I’ve cataloged twenty items I want to try on. Jett follows, pausing on a button-down shirt in the men’s section, dark green and covered in small brighter leaves.
“You should try it on,” I say. “The color would bring out your eyes.”
The hanger clanks against aluminum as he rips it off the rack. “What are you going to try on?”
I glance at the price tag of a green maxi dress decorated with tiny polka dots, and wince. Maybe I’ll try everything on and then decide on one or two items.
Ten minutes later, Jett has a massive pile of fabric perched in his grip, two dozen different options I’m going to have to narrow down. This is why I hate shopping. I don’t want to choose. I want it all.
“Do you like that one?” he asks, pointing at a black slip dress trimmed at the hem with intricate lace.
It’s gorgeous, sexy, but not something I would wear at work or on a work trip. A first date, maybe. Or a night out at a bar. I give it my attention for a second too long because Jett takes it as a yes—which it is—and pulls one off the rack and drapes it over his forearm.
“That’s enough,” I tell him, already dreading the inevitable decision of what will return to the rack. “Let’s find a dressing room.”
Jett tries on his three items first, each with quick efficiency, popping out to show me.
He strikes a pose, hand landing on his hip with flair, and my giggle bubbles to the surface.
The grin he offers me is a cocky, pleased thing—a surprise from him—and when it causes another fit of laughter, it doubles in size.
“I like all three,” he declares, exiting the dressing room and making way for my dozens of items.
With the door shut, I hang them in order of “I’m okay with leaving this” to “highest likelihood of purchasing.”
I’m pulling the first blouse over my shoulders when a knock rattles the door and “Supermodel” by Taylor Dayne filters from his phone speaker. “I expect a full Lizzie McGuire fashion show,” Jett says. “I’m ready when you are.”
He’s seen The Lizzie McGuire Movie?
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, all bewildered eyes, and take stock of the shirt. My midriff shows when I raise my arms, the blue cotton top riding up. I’m not sure this is appropriate to wear or my style, but when he knocks again, I sigh, take a deep breath, and open the door.
Jett stands inches away when the flimsy wood flings open. A quick up-down of my body, and he shakes his head. “No.”
Waving his hand, he shoos me back into the dressing room, stunning me.
I agree with his assessment, but that doesn’t make it any less surprising.
We go through a few more pieces that elicit a similar response before I make it to the pile of clothing I’m afraid to try on because I know I’m going to fall in love.
While he’s distracted changing the song, I try on two swimsuits—a cheeky one-piece covered in a groovy pink seventies pattern and a black string bikini that leaves little to the imagination. In my panic to pack business casual, I forgot the parts of our itinerary in, on, or near water.
They’re more revealing than I’d like, but they are the only options, so I set them in the purchase pile.