I risk a glance up—only to see a smile there and get kicked in the stomach with the sudden, swift urge to look away. “I feel like you could pull off sunglasses.”
“Thanks.”
“Sorry, I meant Faust, not you.”
“Right.”
We both agree that designer denim probably isn’t Faust. After that, we switch to shades of gray, and I monologue about how it’s perfect for obvious branding reasons as well as complementing his general demeanor. “Now this, I dare say, is chic,” I announce when he’s in extra-dark-wash jeans and a white T-shirt. Thick heavyweight cotton, a special overnight order from Japan. Exceedingly cool.
“What?” he deadpans, staring at himself in a full-length mirror.
I can’t help it. “Sorry, do you hate compliments, too? Or just positivity in general?”
His eyes meet mine in the mirror. “Ha.”
“And you wonder why you’re always in gray.”
“What is…” He really suffers here. “?‘Chic’ about jeans and a shirt?”
“Come on, you’ve seenThe Bear.”
“The what?”
“James Dean? Anthony Bourdain?”
He looks at me skeptically, still not comprehending the deep T-shirt lore I’m passing along. “Not following.”
“Okay.” I try to figure out how to word this in a way that makes sense to a man who’s obviously never thought about what he wears, without going fullDevil Wears Pradacerulean sweater. “So, chic is like… ‘who cares.’ It’s stylish without trying, orlookinglike you’re trying.”
His brows lift, a silent question.Explain?
I toy with the ends of my hair, wishing I had my fidget spinner. “Thoughts are chic. Personal style is chic. Being called a freak by a stranger—chic. French girl style isn’t chic because they’re French girls. Same with Copenhagen or wherever. It’s because they’re doing stuff first, or think they are. We hear about trends from them. It’s the ‘next frontier’ of it all. So then—” I hold up my hands, pointerfingers up, and our arms almost brush. But he doesn’t move. He’slistening, and it does something weird to me; it makes me talk more. “Take French out of the equation. Or girl. Because people get so fixated on thinking that fashion is something that belongs to other people. Like, a girl at a gas station in the middle of Alabama? In low-rise jeans and a beaded ‘honk if you love me’ shirt? Oh my God. She’shers. Her story, her narrative, inside before it’s out. No one told her what to wear. She used her mind. That’s chic. But capitalism can’t sell yourself to you, so they try to sell you trends, cycling through each one faster than the last.Chipped nail polish is in; no wait, princess hands; no wait, long nails. No wait, old money blonde, quiet luxury brunette, anything-but-you. Don’t think. Just listen.That’s what’s chic. Ignoring that noise. The most stylish person in a room—any room—is the person who can tell you the story behind what she’s wearing. Oh.” I cover my mouth. “That was a lot.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, but there isn’t any judgment in his tone. More like, the lightest touch of wonder. “You… actually like clothes.”
“I do.” I tilt my head. “Is that surprising?”
A corner of his mouth pulls in. “Why do you like them?”
“It’s, um. Well.” I don’t know how to reply. I haven’t had to think aboutwhy clothingin years. “I like the rules, I guess.”
“Hm.” Translated:Go on.
I go. “I think a lot of people see jobs like this on the surface level, the glam of traveling andyouand getting sent three-hundred-dollar moisturizers for free literally every day. And that’s all valid or whatever—but that isn’t me. I like how complicated clothing is. I like that there’s structure, and history that nobody knows about, or really cares about except for me. I care. And—and truthfully?” I risk another look at him. Still listening. “What you wear can change your life, and I can do that for you, Faust.I can make you into whatever man you want to be this year, just by dressing you.”
Soft cashmere sweaters, the ones that feel like falling into bed after a long day. Watery silk, how it catches light differently than satin. Walking down a crowded sidewalk and seeing myself being seen, processed, validated. For my Frankenstein Prada loafers. For a polka-dot skirt as wide as the sidewalk. For jet-black skinny jeans that I still wear, trend cycle be damned. That’s what I love about clothes: Becoming someone else, every time I get dressed. Choosing the woman I want to be each morning, flickering between lives.
Growing.
Even if most days I pretend to be someone I’m not, I’m still the person putting together each outfit. There’s a piece of me in the mask I wear; I made it, after all. Life might’ve gotten in the way of me becoming a fashion designer, but isn’t all this womanhood an art, too?
Faust’s brows draw in, deep lines fanning horizontal across his forehead. He studies me—silently—and the memory of how he’d looked at me at the wedding slinks through my brain, completely unasked for. “So, who are you trying to be?”
“Hm?” I squeak out.
“With your clothes. Is this your character?”
Surprise sends a heat wave over my cheekbones. For all men look at me, I never feel like they actually look to see. “You’re a fast learner.” I laugh, sounding less sure of myself than I’d like.
