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“No way, Lo,” I scoff as she stands back, giving my hair the once-over. “I draw the line at wigs.” I’m already way out of my comfort zone, but she’s gone to too much effort. I can’t refuse now.
“Perfect,” she declares, reaching forward and tweaking a little bit. “Get dressed.” Wandering to the window again, she keeps her back to me as I do as I’m bid. I pull the T-shirt over my head carefully so not to ruin my hair, catching a waft of the now pleasant smell. “You washed it all?”
“Of course. We can’t have potential, appropriately aged women put off by the stench of smelly socks, can we?”
“So you agree? The clothes stank.” I pull on the jeans and slip my feet into the old Converse. “The jeans are way too long.”
“We’ll turn them up.”
When I come to the jacket, I freeze mid-swing of it over my shoulders, spotting something emblazoned on the back. Shit. “Did you do this?” I ask, taking in the design. She could have just painted it on with a bit of Tip-Ex, but no. Instead, she’s sewn in the entire design with white cotton. It must have taken her all night.
“It was fun.” Her shoulders jump up, but she doesn’t face me. “Are you done?”
I quickly push my arms through the sleeves and straighten myself out, oddly wanting to impress her. Wanting to do her skills and effort justice. “Done.”
She turns, her eyes clenched shut. “Glasses?”
“What?”
“There’s shades in the inside pocket.”
I frown at the pocket as I dip in, pulling out a pair of Ray Bans. She really does have everything covered. “Check,” I declare, slipping them on. When Lo opens her eyes, I expect her to laugh at the sight of me, because I’m certain I must look like a total twat. But she doesn’t. She just beams, so brightly, I’m glad I have the shades on to protect me from the glare.
“I did good.” She comes over and has a little faff with my collar, and then my hair. “Seriously, you’ll be fighting them off.”
I snort and head for the mirror. “I’ll believe it when—” I catch my reflection. Wow. “I look younger.” Much younger. I smile to myself, making a mental note to send Tia a picture.
“But still not young enough to date early-mid-twenties women, Luke.”
“Spoil my fun, why don’t you.” Lo hands me something. “A comb?”
“Every true T-Bird carries a comb.”
I accept and run it through my hair with flair, just how I imagine a cool fifties dude to do it. I don’t know if I’m on the money, but Lo falls apart laughing, and my heart soars. “Did I get it right?” I ask, strangely wanting her approval.
“It’s uncanny.” Walking to the table, she collects her bag. “I’d better be going.”
What is that inside me? Disappointment? I have the most fun with Lo. So . . . “Hey, can’t you come?” Something tells me she doesn’t get out much. Or can’t afford to.
“To the fancy dress party?”
“Yes. Let’s get drunk and do the jitterbug.” I have no clue if the move I just made resembled anything close to the jitterbug. But she laughs, so that’s good enough.
“Thanks, but I really should get home.”
I pout, nibbling my lip in thought. “Your husband doesn’t know we’re friends, does he?” My dumb question falls out without warning. But, clearly, I have to ask. And I hate the immediate falter of her smile.
“Not many women have male friends.” She shrugs. “Unless they’re gay.”
“I’m not gay.”
“Oh, I know that,” she says over a laugh.
“You don’t think he’d approve of me?”
Shaking her head, she wanders to the door. “I just don’t think he’d understand our friendship.”
What’s there to understand? We’re mates. There’s nothing in it, other than coffee and laughs. And the odd insult. But, I suppose I get it. After all, I’m single, and even if I do say so myself, I wasn’t hard done by when God gave out looks. He’d be threatened, and I don’t want to make Lo’s life any more difficult than I assume it already is. “So you won’t come?”
“Thank you, but I don’t want to cramp your style or your chances of scoring with a hot, mature lady.” She flashes me a cheeky grin as she exits, leaving no room to try to convince her. I shouldn’t, and I won’t. Our friendship isn’t about pressure. It’s about an easiness we’re both quite attached to. And not only that, how would she explain going out to a party with another man if she hasn’t told her husband about her lunches with another man?
“I’ll walk you out.” I grab my keys and wallet, following on behind. “Can I drop you home?”
She shakes her head, giving me that knowing smile she always does. “I can walk.”
“No.” She isn’t walking, not when I can drive her. If she’s so worried about her husband getting huffy about me, I’ll drop her at the end of her road. Taking her arm, ignoring her startled state, I lead her out of the building to my car. “In,” I say, pushing her down into the seat. When I land in the driver’s side, I find her grinning across the car. “What?”
