When I handed over the blinding neon clothes, it was a test. If he really wanted to prove he was sorry, to prove that he was capable of making himself vulnerable by embarrassing himself, then he would wear it. I mean, he doesn’tlookembarrassed—no, his expressions have always been too contained for something as simple as a blush—but everyone is looking at him.
Why wouldn’t they? He’s wearing a tank top and a fanny pack.
But also? He’s freaking gorgeous. Who the hell looks good in fluorescent green? This isn’tfair.
“He can’t lookthathot,” Skye says.
I shift my phone to my other ear so I can wipe off the sweat on my brow. The midday sun is crowding me from above, like it’s trying to slap some sense into me. As if I don’t already know that this has backfired.
“I thought the shorts you bought him were tiny?” she asks.
Oh God, theshorts.
“They’re the worst part!” I groan. “I must have forgotten. He has an ass, Skye.An ass.”
“Everyone has an ass.”
Not like this they don’t.
“This is the ass they model asses on.”
A sinkhole must be opening up in the ocean somewhere, like some sort of seismic balancing. This shouldn’t physically be possible. As in physics should dictate that no one can be fuckable in neon.
And yet …Benji.
“This is the first I’m hearing about it.”
Great. Next thing you know, she’s going to ask me to?—
“Is there a reason why you haven’t sent me a photo yet?”
“Why do you assume I’ve even taken one?” I say, sending her three I already had lined up.
Her gasp is dramatic, but understandable. “Fuck me. Those shorts are, like, painted on.”
“I know,” I whine.
Across the street, seemingly unaware of my currentmeltdown, Benji leans against the wall of the gallery, nodding whenever someone passes by with a comment but otherwise looking calm and cool. Meanwhile, I can feel how damp my armpits are, and I think if I wave off the server at this café one more time, they’re going to forcibly remove me.
“What am I going to do?”
“Maybe his date will hate hot guys?”
“Yeah, and maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow with a million dollars in my bank account.”
“Which you will then immediately share with me.”
I push away my empty cup. “Obviously.”
“At least hot-man butt hasn’t completely scrambled your senses yet. What’s happening now? Is she there yet?”
“No, and she’s late.” Fifteen minutes late, and in another ten, they’ll start the session.
Carla struck me as someone who was punctual. She was so … put together. Nothing like me, with my beat-up Converse and decade-old Levi’s that are one winter away from some fashionable inner thigh holes.
“What if she doesn’t show?”
“Oh my God, can you imagine getting stood up in a fanny pack?” Skye squeals.
