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~ Bridget ~
Present
“I’m not sure I’m ready to date,” I say to Lashawna as we stand amid a pile of shoes that others had left on the floor of Nordstrom Rack.
My friend Lashawna hands me a pair of strappy four-inch heels.
I balk. “Won’t these shoes send the wrong message?”
“Like what?” Lashawna asks, examining a pair of espadrilles for herself.
“That I’m willing to go to third base on the first date—which I’m not.”
“Sure, they have a little come-and-get-me vibe, but that doesn’t mean you’re going to put out. This is the 21st century, Laney.”
“Women still get judged as sluts if we try to look too sexy.”
“By older generations, maybe. Since when were you so old-fashioned in your thinking?”
Since not being “old-fashioned” landed me in a relationship with a gangster.
But Lashawna, even though she’s my first and closest friend in Denver, doesn’t know my past. She doesn’t even know my real name, Bridget Moore, or that my real hair color is light brown instead of black. With my hair dyed darker, I look more like my father, whom Grandma liked to say is even cuter than Michael B. Jordan. Otherwise, I’m a blend of both my parents. I have my mom’s hazel eyes but not her blond hair, and I have my dad’s smile. According to Grandma, who raised me, I have my dad’s temperament, too.
“I’m a mom,” I answer, picking up a more modest pair of shoes instead.
“So?” Lashawna challenged, taking the shoes from me and replacing them on the rack. “That doesn’t mean you can’t be sexy. You could totally be a MILF. Look at you. You just need a new wardrobe.”
I glance down at my Vans, which are now officially gray instead of white, but I thought they were a good find at the local Goodwill since they were my size and already broken in. As a single mother trying to put herself through nursing school, I have zero extra cash for improving my wardrobe.
“Besides, you’re only twenty-four,” Lashawna continued. “Too young to be picking out granny shoes.”
“I thought the shoes were nice,” I mumble.
Lashawna had my age right, along with a few other details, like my son’s real name. Evan Lowell was born at Denver Health a year and a half ago, seven months after I ran away from California to hide out in Colorado. Though it had been tough fitting everything I owned into two suitcases and leaving my education at UC Berkeley, I considered myself lucky that I had somewhere to go. I had Aunt Coretta. She’s not actually related to me, but she feels like family since she was my grandmother’s best friend and neighbor. I lived with Grandma, and Aunt Coretta had been a daily fixture in my life till she moved to Denver to look after her own grandbabies.
Lashawna grabs my hand. “Come on, let’s find a dress to match those shoes.”
Within minutes, she’s found a black sheath misplaced behind a rack of coats. Lashawna goes to nursing school with me, but she has a sharp eye for fashion.
“This will look amazing on you,” she says. “And it’s not too slutty, so your mom sensibilities won’t be offended.”
I look over the sheath and have to agree. Taking it from her, I examine the size. Four. I used to be able to fit into that size without problem, but after I stopped breastfeeding Evan, I put on a few pounds.
“It’s too small,” I tell Lashawna. If we can’t find a suitable outfit, that’ll be my excuse for rescheduling the date.
Undaunted, Lashawna pushes me toward the dressing room. “Try it on. You never know.”
Inside the dressing room, I take off my shorts and t-shirt. With a limited income while juggling school, raising Evan, and working as a cashier at Target, my wardrobe is about what’s inexpensive and comfortable. After taking off the Vans, I slide into the heels and pull the sheath over my head.
Lashawna knocks on the dressing room door. “I wanna see.”
“I’m going to bust a seam,” I say as I open the door.
Lashawna beams. “Damn, you look good, girl. Just put some Spanx underneath and you’re good to go.”
“Spanx is out of my budget.”
“We’ll find something.”
