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The closet is no better.
My sundresses are adorable and sweet and girly.
I suck a breath through my nose. Try to exhale the tension in my shoulders.
It’s a dress.
That’s all.
It’s a garment that drapes over my body.
That Wes will take off my body.
I…
Fuck, this is really happening.
I reach for my only red dress. My hands shake so hard I barely manage to slide it off the hanger.
There. I pull the zipper. Check my reflection. Spin until the skirt is twirling.
It’s a cute dress.
And it’s red.
Sexy.
This is…
It’s good.
I can see myself at his place.
I can see his eyes going wide as he pushes the straps off my shoulders and—
Fuck, I can’t do this.
Deep breath.
Slow exhale.
In. Out. In. Out.
We’re making out.
That’s all.
It’s not like he’s going to ask me to strip then order me onto the bed right away.
Probably.
Maybe.
I mean, I don’t really know.
We haven’t said.
He hasn’t—
Fuck.
My reflection stares back at me with wide eyes and flushed skin.
The dress isn’t the problem.
I’m the problem.
I move into the bathroom. Focus on my hair and makeup.
By the time I apply my last coat of mascara, my hands are steady.
My breath is even.
My heart is beating at a normal clip.
I look good. Sweet with a hint of grown-up sex appeal.
Wes will like it.
He… he does find me attractive.
It’s weird. I can’t really fathom Wes finding me attractive—he’s so hot and he has his pick of women—but he’s been very, very explicit about how attractive he finds me.
And I…
Well, I’m not bad looking. I have a nice figure (the one thing nerves are good for is the exercise required to tame them) and pretty eyes.
I’m not naturally gifted in any of the feminine arts (hair, makeup, fashion), but I’m an excellent student.
I spent weeks studying clothing books and style guides as I curated my wardrobe. Then I did the same with my hair and makeup.
I know every fashion system. I know my seasonal palette. I know which colors say sweet and innocent and which say fuck me now.
Deep down, I know the truth.
There isn’t a dress or hair style or lipstick that will make this easier.
My white sandals are right there. They’re sitting on the hardwood floor. My purse is packed on the bed.
This is it.
I’m ready to go.
Only my feet refuse to get into my shoes.
My hands are shaking again.
My heart is thudding again.
My breath—
Fuck, my breath is a mess.
I find my cell. Read over my text exchange with Wes. Try to think up some plausible way to cancel.
Sorry, Wes, you’re super hot and I really, really want to learn how to touch your dick, but I’m too terrified to even get out the door.
Sorry, Wes, but I can’t make it tonight. I’m too rambling and awkward for human contact, much less sexual contact.
Sorry, Wes, but I’m calling this off. I can barely keep it together for this message. How am I supposed to take off my clothes?
No.
None of it works.
None of it is happening.
This is happening.
I just need… something. Some trick or secret or magic shot of confidence.
My fingers move before my head can stop them.
I call Owen.
He picks up on the second ring.
“What’s up?” His voice is tired but happy.
It’s late in Chicago. And he works today. I think. It’s hard to keep track of his ever-changing schedule, so I tend to assume he’s working. It’s usually the case.
“Hey.” I try to keep my voice even. Get halfway there. “How are you?”
“Wiped. Just got out of the shower.”
“Am I interrupting?”
His laugh is low and hearty. “Reggie, Quinn wants to know if she’s interrupting,” he calls to his husband.
“If I have my say, yeah,” Reggie calls. “Tell her I say hi.”
“I can put it on speaker,” Owen says.
“No, if she’s calling…” Reggie’s voice drops to a whisper.
“She’s not,” Owen says.
“She is. Go.”
“He’s worried about you,” Owen says.
“He’s sweet,” I say.
“Hey.” Owen laughs. “And I’m what?”
“Lucky,” I say.
“I know.” His voice softens. “Are you okay?”
“Just a little nervous.”
“You haven’t called in forever, Q.” He calls me by my old nickname.
“I’ve been busy.”
“You graduated a month ago.”
“It was nice seeing you. I know how hard it was getting time off.” I start rambling about seeing Owen and Reggie at graduation. Then about the dinner we had with our parents after. The one where they gushed about my accomplishments and how proud they were I’d be attending med school in Chicago. The same city as my brother.
As them.
And maybe I can move back home.
Or at least come home early this summer.
“Q, stop.” Owen’s voice is knowing. “Have you been seeing your therapist?”
“Can we not?”
“I have to ask.”
“Yeah, I… I’m good. I’m eating right. I’m working. I’m exercising every day and watching the caffeine.” My nerves aren’t bad enough to qualify as an anxiety disorder. More… nerves. I only check in with my therapist once a month now. It’s enough to keep me steady. Ish.
