Page 17 of Safe Place

She grabs my wrist and pulls me past the counter, through the curtain she came out from minutes ago. The back room opens up into organized chaos—boxes, books, and rows of tables and bins stacked high with Westcliffe hoodies, sweatshirts, tees, joggers. Everything is sorted into messy but intentional piles, little paper signs taped to the tables.

“Small, Medium, Large,” she mutters under her breath, scanning as she walks. “Extra Large, Extra Extra Large”

She stops in front of one table and gestures at me. “You look like an Extra Large.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You look very confident.”

She shrugs. “I’m usually right.” Then she glances down at the next pile and grimaces. “Although there’s way more Extra Extra Large than anything else.”

“What is all this?” I ask.

“Defective clothes,” she says matter-of-factly. “Loose stitching, slightly crooked logos, tags sewn weird. But they’re all small things people wouldn’t notice unless they’re really looking. They sell these at a discount, and employees get even more off.” She spreads her arms like she’s presenting treasure. “So. Take your pick.”

I don't know what to call this. I’m with a girl I barely know, and I don't want to be anywhere else. This is not something I ever imagined myself doing—standing in a stockroom, digging through discounted college merch, letting a girl guide me around like it’s our own little secret. If my dad could see me right now, he’d probably ask what the hell went wrong.

I start flipping through hoodies, feeling the thick fabric between my fingers. “What size do you wear?”

She pauses, then shrugs. “I like an oversized fit. So usually medium or large.”

I nod like I’m filing away critical information. I grab an XL for myself, then another. Then I wander to the Large pile (there is almost nothing in the medium pile) and pick up a few that look identical—same color, same design. I compare them for a second before turning back to her.

“Here,” I say, handing her one. Then I hold up the second. “We should match. Again.”

For a split second, she just looks at me. Then her cheeks go faintly pink, like the blush sneaks up on her before she can stop it. She clears her throat and pretends to inspect the hoodie.

“You’re very committed to this matching thing,” she says.

“I aspire to be like you. I want everyone to know we’re buddies.”

I swear I see her cheeks go even redder.

We finish our shopping spree, and Sophie scans and bags the clothes, one by one. For a moment, I just watch her—this girl who works three jobs, who always folds her sleeves and jumps like she’s nervous. She wears Westcliffe gear like it’s not a choice but a uniform, like it makes up most of her closet.

“I’ll take these too,” I say, sliding the pile I grabbed from the front of the store onto the counter.

She glances down at them. “Why? There are repeats in the defective ones you got.”

“I know.” I shrug. “I’m giving them to Grant. Can you put them in a separate bag?”

She nods without question and keeps scanning.

“Here.” I hand her the medium-sized ones I picked out for her.

“You didn’t have to, Micah. But I’m only taking them because I know there’s no way they’d fit you,” she says, but her huge smile tells a different story. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” I mean it. “This was a lot of fun. Let’s do it again.”

When I leave the store, the thought lingers. If she’s working this much, money must be tight. The discount probably makes this stuff cheaper than anything else she could buy. And maybe that’s why she wears so much of it—not because she loves it, but because it’s practical. Because it’s what she can afford. Because it’s what she has.

It also occurs to me that a thirty minute trip to the campus bookstore was not on today's schedule.

I'm running behind. Again.

After two more classes that drag longer than they should, I finally head back toward the apartment. When I reach my building, I could pull into the garage with my designated space. But instead, I turn onto the side street and find a spot a block away.

It’s not about convenience. It’s about passing by the cafe. Again. It’s definitely not my brightest moment, as I now have to walk with a shitload of bags filled with Westcliffe merch.

I don’t know what I’m hoping for. Probably that she’ll be behind the counter again, sleeves pushed up, and eyes focused on the espresso machine. But when I glance through the glass, she’s not there.