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“She asks if it pays well.”

“I’m comfortable.”

“Good. She asks how you met Ruby.”

“Through mutual friends.”

“Which friends?”

I pause. “You didn’t specify.”

Gemma looks at Ruby. Ruby takes a long sip of coffee. “Just say through friends. Keep it vague. People fill in the blanks themselves.”

“What if they ask follow-up questions?”

“Then you deflect. Change the subject. Ask them about themselves. Humans love talking about themselves.” Ruby sets down her mug. “Trust me, nobody at a wedding is paying that much attention to how the new boyfriend met the cousin. They’re mostly there for the open bar.”

She says “the new boyfriend” like it’s a category. A role. A box on a form. It’s accurate, I file it where it belongs, and I pretend it doesn’t generate a response that I’d rather not examine.

Liv arrives at noon to take me shopping.

“He needs real clothes,” she told Ruby on the phone last night. “Not your ex’s leftovers. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”

Ruby protested for approximately four minutes before giving in, and now the three of us are in Liv’s car heading to a part of the city I’ve never seen, and Liv is driving with one hand and gesturing with the other and talking nonstop.

“Okay, ground rules. I’m in charge. Ruby, you’re here for approval purposes only. Aiden, you’re basically a mannequin who can talk, and I mean that as a compliment.”

“Thank you,” I say, because I’ve learned that when Liv says something confusing, gratitude is usually the safest response.

The store is large and bright and full of more clothing than I knew existed. Liv moves through it with a confidence that suggests she’s memorized the floor plan. She holds shirts against my chest, makes me try on jackets, vetoes three pairs of pants before finding ones she deems acceptable.

Within ten minutes, Liv has assembled what she calls a “foundation wardrobe” and steers me toward the fitting rooms. She follows me in.

“Liv,” Ruby calls from outside. “He can dress himself.”

“I need to assess the fit. This is strictly professional.” She pulls the curtain shut behind us and turns to face me. “Okay, try the dark jeans first.”

I pull off the sweatpants.

Liv’s expression freezes.

For a moment she doesn’t speak, which based on my four days of knowing her may be unprecedented. Her eyes drop, then snap back up, then drop again—involuntarily, I think, because her face is doing several things at once, none of which she seems to have authorized.

Her mouth curls up. “You’re not wearing underwear,” she says, sounding slightly breathless.

“No.”

“You’re not wearing underwear because…?”

“I don’t own underwear.”

“You don’t—” She presses her hand to her mouth. Takes a breath.

“The concept seems unnecessary. It’s an additional layer between skin and clothing that doesn’t serve a clear functional—”

“Okay, we’re getting you underwear. That’s—we’re adding that to the list.” She’s turned slightly sideways now, but she keeps glancing back with an expression I’d categorize as conflicted. “Ruby?” she calls out.

“What?” Ruby’s voice comes from the other side of the curtain.