Where We Left Off (Middle of Somewhere 3)

“Here, try this on.”

Will held up a pair of pants that tied at the waist with a strip of fabric and had built-in suspenders, like in those old Charlie Chaplin films. He handed them to me along with a sleeveless shirt that looked like an undershirt but probably wasn’t. It was baby blue and cut low enough that the few chest hairs I had would be on full display.

“Um, why?”

Will’s eyes narrowed, like he was seeing me in the outfit he’d chosen, and gestured me toward the dressing rooms.

“Because I want to see. Okay?”

And of course the idea that Will would want to see me in anything was so flattering that I immediately stumbled to the dressing room. Will hooked his thumbs in his belt loops and gave the dressing room attendant a look that said he had this and we didn’t need any assistance. She just gave him a bored once-over and raised one painted-on eyebrow, tapping at her phone where it rested on her slender thigh.

I hung the clothes on the back of the door, kicked off my ratty sneakers, and pulled off my jeans and T-shirt, letting them fall in a pile on the floor.

The mirror certainly didn’t do me any favors. In the direct lighting, reflected to myself from three angles, there was no avoiding it. I was… not much to look at. Skinny as shit, kind of tan, but it maybe looked more like I was just scruffy. Freckles across my nose and cheeks. Hair on my arms and legs but, for some reason, only a sprinkling of hair on my chest and a few under my belly button.

My shoulders and knees were bony—I mean, I wasn’t in Charles’ league, but he was about nine feet tall—and my shoulder blades poked out. Once, when he’d had a few drinks, Daniel told me that he thought I would be handsome in a few years. Something about growing into my face. But it had been over a year since he’d said that, and if it was going to happen, it certainly hadn’t yet.

My nose still looked like a little kid’s, and I had these deep dimples that my grandma used to touch whenever she’d see me and say, “God just took a little stitch.” Which was actually terrifying when I thought about it. My mouth was too big for my face. My eyes were… I dunno, they were mine so it was hard to tell. Okay, I guess? Mostly I just thought I looked startled all the time. And my eyebrows kind of didn’t go with my face or something. I looked nice, mostly, but my eyebrows were all über serious, like I was concentrating really hard or someone had just hurt my feelings.

Turning my back to concentrate on the pants wasn’t much better because even though they were, you know, pants, there was something weird about them, and I couldn’t figure out which way around they went. As I was pulling them up, the door opened, nearly pushing me into the mirror, and Will slid in.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” he asked.

He took in my state of half undress with a total lack of concern or interest, and I felt this particular kind of shame that usually comes when you give someone something that really matters to you and they don’t even notice.

“These stupid pants are like a puzzle,” I said. “I couldn’t figure out which—”

Will tossed me the shirt, which I pulled on—couldn’t mess up a tank top at least—and the second the fabric touched me he tucked it into the pants, and did something where he tied the fabric and engaged the suspenders in one easy gesture.

“Who could wear white pants anyway?” I muttered. “I’d sit down on a bench or something and be filthy in point five seconds.”

He didn’t respond, regarding me, leaning against the dressing room door, a hand on his chin like he was considering what he thought of me. And when he smiled it felt emptier than I’d expected, because it was like he was smiling at the clothes and not at me at all. Was this what he was attracted to? People who dressed like this?

Was this what he wanted me to be?

I looked ridiculous. Like I was trying really hard to be someone I wasn’t.

“You like this?” I asked Will.

He nodded.

“But, like, for me?”

“Well, you wouldn’t wear it, would you?”

His hands went to my shoulders to adjust the suspenders, and I shook my head.

“I don’t look like me.”

He shrugged like that was nothing.

“You get to decide what you look like. You get to decide who you are.”

“You don’t get to decide who you are,” I said. That was ridiculous. “You just… are who you are.”

Will’s hands, still hovering at my shoulders, tightened. I took a step toward him so we were almost chest to chest.