The F-Word

“Whoa. If you want to go shopping—”

“I did not say I want to, I said I have to.”

“I don’t get the difference. And how come we’re back to Mister? I thought we settled…” Then it hits me. “Shopping,” I say slowly. “To get something to wear to the wedding.”

“The wedding. The rehearsal dinner. Friday day. Saturday day. Sunday day…”

She’s standing with her chin up, her eyes bright, her hands on her hips. She’s looking defiant, but I’m pretty sure I can see past that to what she’s really feeling.

Fear.

Fear of the unknown. I’ve see that look before, on my man Cooper’s face right before he stepped out of a plane for his first skydive. Remember Cooper? My best pal through middle school, high school, college, heck, through life? We’ve been tight fo

rever—and he’d have seen that look on my face if he hadn’t gone out the door of the plane before I did.

This isn’t skydiving, but it’s just as bad. Bailey’s about to walk into a glitzy store, face a judgmental clerk, and be presented with endless, terrifying choices.

“Right,” she says briskly, “so I’m taking a long lunch.”

“Yes. Of course. Take the rest of the day.”

“Thank you.”

I nod. She heads for the door. Or maybe for disaster.

This cannot possibly go well. And I can’t help her. I mean, I could say I’ll go with her, but what good would that be? Last night only worked because we picked up shoes, a purse, a scarf. Small, easy-to-choose stuff. This is different. This will be a shopping expedition, not a shopping trip.

Besides, if I were picking out her clothes, I’d stop at a white lace bra and panties. Okay, maybe throw in a pair of shoes. One of the spike heeled jobs we got last night. And for a little variety, something short and silky, something that would cling to her breasts and her hips and…

Goddammit.

She needs a woman to shop with her.

Think, I tell myself. Think! There has to be a solution.

A couple of possibilities come to mind.

I could phone one of the women I’ve dated. Explain that Bailey is a business associate. Explain that she needs some help choosing a weekend’s worth of clothes and, whoops, did I forget to mention that she needs them for a weekend in the country with me?

I shove back my chair, get to my feet and start pacing.

No. Not a good plan. Not a good plan at all.

Possibility number two.

Pick a store. Call and ask to speak with a personal shopper. I know such people exist. I’ve seen the discreet signs pointing the way to their offices. Offer the lady the same lame explanation, the business associate thing, blah blah blah. A personal shopper’s no more likely to fall for it than an ex-girlfriend, but who cares?

Bailey. That’s who would care. No matter how helpful a personal shopper would be, Bailey would not feel comfortable.

There’s only one thing that will work.

I whip out my cellphone and hit a button. My sister answers on the first ring.

“Hi,” she says breathlessly. “Look, if Jenny’s had a problem with the Phillips kid again, I’m sorry. But, really, somebody needs to tell him that he cannot go around deliberately finger-painting other kids and…” She pauses. “Matt? Is that you?”

“That’s one of the amazing things about smartphones, Case. All you have to do is look at the screen and you can see who’s calling.”

Casey gives a deep sigh. “I know. But Jenny’s pre-school called this same time yesterday and the day before, and I just figured—”