Page 62 of Driving Beats

“Here you go—hey, what are you doing? I told you to sit and wait for me.” He puts a tray on the coffee table.

I muster as much indignation as possible, considering all my weight is on my right leg. “I’m not an invalid.”

“Of course you’re not. Your foot needs time to heal, that’s all. You’ll be back to normal in a couple days.”

“Days? No way will I be out of it for days!”

His shoulders lower. “Listen, I’m sorry but your ankle doesn’t agree. The best thing you can do is baby it. Get caught up on the latest shows.”

I roll my eyes. “What choice do I have?”

“Well, you’re not wrong there.” He pats the couch. “Here. Sit down and enjoy the oatmeal I prepared for you. I’ll get my bowl and join you out here.”

Thankfully, he leaves the room to allow me the private indignity of hopping to the sofa, where I collapse. He left a tray with oatmeal, fruit, and coffee. I pick up the mug first and take a long sip, extra sweet like I like it. He returns and sits opposite me. Lifting it, I say, “This is good.”

“I’ve discovered this fantastic brew when UC was in New Orleans. The coffee beans are from there.”

I take another sip, savoring the chicory flavor. He picks up his bowl, so I decide to try the oatmeal—not my breakfast of choice, but beggars can’t be choosers and all that. I dip my spoon into the mixture. “Wow. This is much better than I feared.”

His spoon pauses on the way to his mouth. “Thanks. I think.”

In no time, the oatmeal is devoured and I’m munching on a clementine. “I almost feel human,” I declare, patting my belly.

“Considering I want my stylist to be human, I’d call that a win.”

Sitting back, I lift my foot. “I should be there with you for the photoshoot. Is it really necessary for me to skip it?”

He takes a sip of his coffee. “No, you don’t have to miss it. However, you’d have to sit for the entire time. I’m sure they have ice. I can carry you to and from the store.”

I consider everything he’s told me. “That would be way too embarrassing. I’m your stylist. I can’t be there and let others do my job.”

“Your choice.”

I punch the throw pillow next to me. “There's no need for you to be so smug about it.”

His mug hides his face. “Just stating the facts.”

“Well, they suck.” I stare at the blank television. “If it’s not possible for me to go with you to the photoshoot, I’ll have to make myself useful some other way. I guess I can order things online for you to try.”

He scowls at me. “Didn’t I suggest that weeks ago? Order all my clothes and be done in a day?”

“That’s not what I’m suggesting at all. I’m able to do this now because we bought the bulk of your items already. Tried them on. Touched the fabrics. I’ve learned how a variety of items fit you. I couldn’t have done that before. Plus, I can get you some things like a belt off the internet because they aren’t as unique.”

“So you say.” He finishes his coffee. “Don’t tell anyone this—I will deny it—but it was sort of fun shopping with you.”

“Aha! Made a convert out of you after all! Have I won our bet?”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

Guess not. Yet, his confession makes the fact I have to stay in his house, alone, somewhat tolerable. “I’m going with that!” I rearrange my dirty dishes on the tray. “Now, tell me. Which outfit are you wearing to the photoshoot?”

He shrugs. “I was thinking jeans and⁠—”

“No,” I stop him. “Tumi is a luxury brand. You have to convey high-end from your toes to your head. Try again.”

“Fine. How about a pair of khaki trousers and one of the shirts from M. Marcel?”

“Now we’re getting somewhere. Because you’ll be wearing khaki pants, you should wear a statement color on the top. This will set off your new black luggage perfectly.”