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“Not in the least. It’s Brooklyn casual. I just enjoy you in clothing that’s black . . . and slinky.”
Her lips curve into a sneaky grin. “In that case, why don’t you wear those jeans that make your butt look good?”
On that note, she spins around, heads up her steps, and goes into her building.
And I do something I rarely do.
I start thinking about what I’m going to wear the next day.
7
RUBY
This is probably a mission for Gigi.
I stand in front of my closet the next day, swiping through the options, yanking T-shirt after T-shirt from their hangers and then sticking my tongue out at my clothes.
It’s not like I’m going to find a lot of black and slinky in here.
Hell, my wardrobe lately consists of—let’s see—yoga pants, yoga pants, yoga pants, and the occasional pair of jogging shorts.
Still, I try one more time, just in case I missed some sexy number that would be perfect for . . . mushroom tasting.
What the hell does one even wear to go mushroom tasting at Forage and Fox?
Also, who names a café Forage and Fox? What’s appetizing about digging through the dirt or . . . foxes?
Doesn’t matter.
Clothes matter.
Greatly.
After the triumph in the store yesterday, I’m inclined to bring a level of slink guaranteed to make him drool. Yes, we’re just friends, but there aren’t any rules against friends making friends salivate.
Especially when Jesse flat-out asked for it.
But I won’t find anything drool-worthy here.
I grab my cell phone from the coffee table in my tiny studio, spotting a text from my mom that I’ll check in a few. First, I fire off a quick message to my cousin.
Ruby: Fashion emergency.
I add a firetruck for effect.
Her reply is instantaneous, but I’m not surprised. I’ve used her two favorite words.
Gigi: At your service! What would you like?
A. A swimsuit guaranteed to make your breasts perky and your stomach flat?
B. A pair of skinny jeans to emphasize that bootilicious backside of yours?
C. To go shopping with your favorite cousin?
Please say C please. Please say C. Please say C.
After that kind of masterful begging, I fully intend to take pity on her.
But not immediately.
Ruby: Hmmm . . . well, that swimsuit sounds amazing. But borrowing it would mean I’d have to go swimming, and you know how I feel about bodies of water over two-feet deep. And I’m in the market for something slinkier than jeans.
Gigi: Then C is your only hope! Let’s go shopping.
She sends back approximately a million excited GIFs—the cast of Seinfeld dancing and screaming, Kermit the Frog cheering on a desk, and some random guy doing a happy punching dance in the cereal aisle in his tighty-whiteys.
And on and on . . .
As I wait for the explosion of GIFs to slow, I pop over to the text from my mom.
Mom: Dinner last night was so much fun! Here’s the pic the waiter took for us. Is it coming through? I can’t see it on my end. Do you see it? Is my phone broken? Will I ever learn to use this stupid thing before your dad makes me upgrade again next year?
Ruby: You ask a lot of REALLY good questions, LOL. And yes, I can see it. It’s so cute! Thanks, Mom. And thanks for dinner.
Mom: No problemo, baby. Maybe next time we’ll do just the two of us. Have some girl talk.
Ruby: I’d love that. What are you up to on your first day of vacation?
Mom: Oh! I’m working on a new crumble topping. I know I swore I tweaked the recipe perfectly last summer, but this year, I’m really bringing the thunder. This crumble is going to tear the house down when we ship out the caramel apple pies this fall!
Ruby: So, you’re working while not working? Sounds like you. Speaking of girl talk, gotta go. I think Gigi has finally stopped GIF-bombing me so I can read where I’m meeting her.
Mom: GIF-bombing? *groans* Is that another phone thing? Please tell me I don’t need to learn how to do it.
Ruby: You are excused from this knowledge, dear mother. Xoxo
Mom: Love you bunches. Give Gigi a hug for me when you see her!
I return to the Gigi thread, but my estimates were off. She sent so many GIFs that I scroll for a solid minute to get to the part where she tells me where we’re meeting.
Finally, just as my thumb wails and throws a text-thumb tantrum, I find the location and the time at the bottom of the thread.
A cute boutique a few blocks away, and we’re meeting in thirty minutes.
I grin, surprised to find I’m excited. Who would have thought?
I’m not a shopper by nature. I’m a run-into-Target-and-grab-ten-of-the-same-V-neck tees kind of girl. But I learned at a young age to tolerate it, mostly because of Claire.
Claire, with her effortlessly perfect wavy brown hair, freckled nose, and playful green eyes, wasn’t a clothes horse. She was a thing horse. Shiny bracelets, tiny ceramic animals, antique dance cards she framed with pressed flowers, retro clutch purses like Audrey Hepburn carried in Breakfast at Tiffany’s—they had Claire’s name written all over them.
