Page 42
I kick off my shoes and stand here, taking in the washed pan, the now-closed cabinet, and Kell waiting to see what I’ll object to next. I don’t actually want to spend the evening asking whether he remembered to put the peanut butter away.
“Get dressed.”
He looks down at himself. “I am dressed.”
“Put on a shirt.”
“Why?”
“Because we’re going shopping.”
He straightens. “For what?”
“You.”
That gets the shirt on him. The store is in a shopping center twenty minutes away, large enough to give Kell choices and far enough outside Hollis Springs that I’m hoping we can accomplish this without turning the trip into an event. That hope lasts approximately thirty seconds.
A woman near the entrance spots Kell and does a visible double take. A man in a business suit farther inside raises a phone, then lowers it again when I catch him staring. Nobody approaches us, but heads turn as we pass.
As far as anyone knows, there is one living Wicker Man in the world, and most people who recognize what Kell is probably assume they’re looking at Locke. Kell notices the attention. He just doesn’t seem particularly bothered by it. Within a minute, he’s more interested in the men’s department than in anyone watching him.
He walks into it and immediately proves that I shouldn’t have expected this to be simple. I start with practical things. Jeans. Shirts. Underwear. Socks. Shoes.
Kell starts with texture. He runs his fingers over cotton, denim, wool, and a brushed flannel shirt. Some fabrics keep his fingers there for several seconds. Others get barely a touch before he moves on. The flannel is one of those.
“No.”
I take it off the rack anyway. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Soft wrong.”
“I didn’t know soft could be wrong.”
Kell rubs the sleeve between two fingers again. “This is.”
Then he moves on before I can defend flannel as a concept.
He finds his first pair of jeans without my help. The denim is dark, almost black, and after trying them on, he rejects the first size because the legs are too loose. The second pair fits closer through his thighs and sits properly on his hips.
Kell comes out of the fitting room, turns toward the mirror, and checks the fit from several angles. He doesn’t ask whether I approve.
“These.”
His certainty pleases me more than I expected. Every piece of clothing he’s worn until now has belonged to another man. Dave’s pants. Tom’s shirts and jeans. Things somebody handed him because they were available. These are the first clothes Kell has ever chosen because he likes them.
“Good. We’ll get another pair.”
He shakes his head. “Different.”
“You need more than one pair of jeans.”
“Yes. Different jeans.”
Of course. We add a black pair and another dark wash in a different cut.
Then he finds boots. Not sensible brown walking shoes. Black leather boots with a solid heel and enough attitude to announce that the man wearing them has opinions before he opens his mouth.
“Kell.”
