Wrangled

“Perfect!” cries Mindy, and the others at the table laugh and start to chat about color preferences and favorite fabrics and who-wore-what at the last big party in Spruce.

Except for Billy, whose face seems to be trying (and failing) to hide the fact that he’s sulking at having his pride wounded.

He gives me a short look. “I really don’t need your help,” he says quietly, “but I guess if it’s fun for you or something …?”

I glance away with a sigh.

Billy frowns at me, but says nothing further.

We soon put in our orders, and the food arrives some time later. After I consume my tasty crepes—which I must state, for the benefit of that crazy old man’s record with the watchdog down the street, were literally ten times better than I remember—Mindy demands to pay for my breakfast, and then the six of us are off. The women keep talking as we walk to the store, while Billy texts irritably on his phone a few paces behind us (likely bitching to Tanner about what tortuous plans he’s been roped into). Mindy and Elissa, to my chagrin, take turns throwing questions my way about what all I’ve been up to while Nadia and Whitney listen in with excited, dreamy-eyed faces. I give them the usual vague, modest, nothing answers, downplaying the strokes of success I’ve had in LA by a pinch or two.

Somehow, the idea of boasting about my career, or the agency I work for, or the magazines I’ve had editorial spreads in just doesn’t have the same appeal as it did before arriving in this town.

I wonder if last night’s heated dialogue with Chad messed me up worse than I thought.

Then we make it to the store. “How’s this one?” asks Elissa as she yanks something off the rack. “Does it complement my hair?”

“I like this one!” cries Nadia, her head popping up from a sea of clothes on the other side of the store.

Mindy is off on her own, gnawing on her lip as she squints pensively at every single dress she passes.

“Nope,” I cut in, finally having had it up to here with how badly these ladies’ instincts are. “You can’t pair this with this,” I begin by telling Nadia, who frowns. “Those two don’t go together. You’ll want something more like this to go with those,” I tell Whitney and Elissa, who both look down at their shoes, confused. “And Mindy, you’re in the wrong section. You don’t show up to a reunion in jeans and a peasant blouse with those shoes. Who are you? Shelby Eatenton-Latcherie? Yes, I know it’s your style, but you need to dream bigger. Over here, Mindy, over here. Oh, no, no,” I breathe when I find Elissa holding a dress up to her body. “No, no, no.”

This goes on for another half hour.

Even two store clerks get involved—two store clerks who are about as clueless as Mindy and her friends. Before long, I have a crowd of folk I’m patiently educating on proper color and tone complements, the right fabric choices for special events, practical knowhow on what accessories pair with what, a brief exposé on shoes and how to make one’s choice in them really pop, and then concluding with a lengthy discussion on proper hemlines.

Billy, absent mostly from this impromptu department store seminar, finally emerges from the depths of the men’s section—after likely having feverishly texted his husband to come save him from this torture—to give a look at his friends. His eyes light up with surprise when he finds Mindy fresh out of the changing room in a pretty red dress (the best we could manage in a place like this) that brings out her eyes, cute elfin face, tiny figure, and the rich brown curls of her hair—which will be made all the richer after she gets it styled.

“You did … a really great job,” exclaims Billy, smiling.

I eye him. “You sound surprised. Too surprised.”

“I, well …” Billy sighs. “Of course, I probably shouldn’t be. It’s just that I’ve never seen Mindy look so—”

“Sexy?” Mindy gives him a spin, then peers at herself in the mirror. “You thinking of switching teams yet, Billy? You’re on my hall pass list. Joel approved you to be the only man I can step out of my nuptial bonds with.”

Billy makes a face. “I’ll pass, but thanks. Hey, Lance, how do these look?”

I stare at him—the fitted plaid shirt, pleated dress slacks that look yanked off a clearance rack, and ill-fitting shoes he holds against the front of him. I’m not even sure where to begin.

“Why do you hate me so much?” Billy exclaims suddenly, perhaps because I took too long to respond. “I went along with this big let’s-go-shopping thing. I’ve been civil with you. Tanner was even nice to you. He said he ran into you at the mixer. And—”